THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


IN  MEMORY  OF 

Mr*  and  Mrs.  Herbert  B 
Worden 


THE   GARDEN 
of  ALLAH 


THE  GARDEN 
of  ALLAH 

By  ROBERT  glCHENS 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE   FAN," 
"FELIX,"    "TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE,"  ETC. 


NEW    TORK   •    FREDERICK    A. 
STOKES  COMPANY  •  PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1904, 
BY  ROBERT  HICHENS 

This  edition  published  in  January ,  1905 


GIFT 


9; 

CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 


PACK 


PRELUDE       1 

BOOK  II 
THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYEk 87 

BOOK  III 
THE  GARDEN 158 

BOOK  IV 
THE  JOURNEY 268 

BOOK  V 
THE  REVELATION       402 

BOOK  VI 
THE  JOURNEY  BACK  .    434 


287 


THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 


BOOK  I 

PRELUDE 
CHAPTER   I 

THE  fatigue  caused  by  a  rough  sea  journey,  and, 
perhaps,  the  consciousness  that  she  would  have  to 
be  dressed  before  dawn  to  catch  the  train  for  Beni- 
Mora,   prevented   Domini   Enfilden   from  sleeping. 
There  was  deep  silence  in  the  Hotel  de  la  Mer  at 
Robertville.      The    French    officers    who    took    their    pension 
there  had   long   since   ascended   the   hill   of  Addouna  to   the 
barracks.     The  cafes  had  closed   their  doors  to  the  drinkers 
and  domino  players.     The  lounging  Arab  boys  had  deserted 
the   sandy   Place   de   la   Marine.     In   their   small   and   dusky 
bazaars  the  Israelites  had  reckoned  up  the  takings  of  the  day, 
and  curled  themselves  up  in  gaudy  quilts  on  their  low  divans 
to  rest.     Only  two  or  three  gendarmes  were  still  about,  and  a 
few  French  and  Spaniards  at  the  Port,  where,  moored  against 
the  wharf,   lay   the  steamer  Le   General  Bertrand,   in  which 
Domini  had  arrived  that  evening  from  Marseilles. 

In  the  hotel  the  fair  and  plump  Italian  waiter,  who  had 
drifted  to  North  Africa  from  Pisa,  had  swept  up  the  crumbs 
from  the  two  long  tables  in  the  salle-a-manger,  smoked  a  thin, 
dark  cigar  over  a  copy  of  the  Depeche  Algerienne,  put  the  paper 
down,  scratched  his  blonde  headj  on  which  the  hair  stood  up  in 
bristles,  stared  for  a  while  at  nothing  in  the  firm  manner  of 
weary  men  who  are  at  the  same  time  thoughtless  and  depressed, 
and  thrown  himself  on  his  narrow  bed  in  the  dusty  corner  of 
the  little  room  on  the  stairs  near  the  front  door.  Madame, 
the  landlady,  had  laid  aside  her  front  and  said  her  prayer  to 
the  Virgin.  Monsieur,  the  landlord,  had  muttered  his  last 
curse  against  the  Jews  and  drunk  his  last  glass  of  rum.  They 
snored  like  honest  people  recruiting  their  strength  for  the  mor- 


2  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

row.  In  number  two  Suzanne  Charpot,  Domini's  maid,  was 
dreaming  of  the  Rue  de  Rivolf. 

But  Domini,  with  wide-open  eyes,  was  staring  from  her  big, 
square  pillow  at  the  red  brick  floor  of  her  bedroom,  on  which 
stood  various  trunks  marked  by  the  officials  of  the  Douane. 
There  were  two  windows  in  the  room  looking  out  towards  the 
Place  de  la  Marine,  below  which  lay  the  station.  *  Closed  per- 
siennes of  brownish-green,  blistered  wood  protected  them.  One 
of  these  windows  was  open.  Yet  the  candle  at  Domini's  bed- 
side burnt  steadily.  The  night  was  warm  and  quiet,  without 
wind. 

As  she  lay  there,  Domini  still  felt  the  movement  of  the  sea. 
The  passage  had  been  a  bad  one.  The  ship,  crammed  with 
French  recruits  for  the  African  regiments,  had  pitched  and 
rolled  almost  incessantly  for  thirty-one  hours,  and  Domini  and 
most  of  the  recruits  had  been  ill.  Domini  had  had  an  inner 
cabin,  with  a  skylight  opening  on  to  the  lower  deck,  and  had 
heard  above  the  sound  of  the  waves  and  winds  their  groans  and 
exclamations,  rough  laughter,  and  half -timid,  half -defiant  con- 
versations as  she  shook  in  her  berth.  At  Marseilles  she  had  seen 
them  come  on  board,  one  by  one,  dressed  in  every  variety  of 
poor  costume,  each  one  looking  anxiously  around  to  see  what 
the  others  were  like,  each  one  carrying  a  mean  yellow  or  black 
bag  or  a  carefully-tied  bundle.  On  the  wharf  stood  a  Zouave,  in 
tremendous  red  trousers  and  a  fez,  among  great  heaps  of  dull 
brown  woollen  rugs.  And  as  the  recruits  came  hesitatingly 
along  he  stopped  them  with  a  sharp  word,  examined  the  tickets 
they  held  out,  gave  each  one  a  rug,  and  pointed  to  the  gangway 
that  led  from  the  wharf  to  the  vessel.  Domini,  then  leaning 
over  the  rail  of  the  upper  deck,  had  noticed  the  different  ex- 
pressions with  which  the  recruits  looked  at  the  Zouave.  To  all 
of  them  he  was  a  phenomenon,  a  mystery  of  Africa  and  of  the 
new  life  for  which  they  were  embarking.  He  stood  there  im- 
pudently and  indifferently  among  the  woollen  rugs,  his  red  fez 
pushed  well  back  on  his  short,  black  hair  cut  en  brosse,  his 
bronzed  face  twisted  into  a  grimace  of  fiery  contempt,  throwing, 
with  his  big  and  muscular  arms,  rug  after  rug  to  the  anxious 
young  peasants  who  filed  before  him.  They  all  gazed  at  his 
legs  in  the  billowing  red  trousers;  some  like  children  regarding 
a  Jack-in-the-box  which  had  just  sprung  up  into  view,  others 
like  ignorant,  but  superstitious,  people  who  had  unexpectedly 
come  upon  a  shrine  by  the  wayside.  One  or  two  seemed  dis- 
posed to  laugh  nervously,  as  the  very  stupid  laugh  at  anything 


PRELUDE  3 

they  see  for  the  first  time.  But  fear  seized  them.  They  re- 
frained convulsively  and  shambled  on  to  the  gangway,  looking 
sideways,  like  fowls,  and  holding  their  rugs  awkwardly  to  their 
breasts  with  their  dirty,  red  hands. 

To  Domini  there  was  something  pitiful  in  the  sight  of  all 
these  lads,  uprooted  from  their  homes  in  France,  stumbling 
helplessly  on  board  this  ship  that  was  to  convey  them  to  Africa. 
They  crowded  together.  Their  poor  bundles  and  bags  jostled 
one  against  the  other.  With  their  clumsy  boots  they  trod  on 
each  other's  feet.  And  yet  all  were  lonely  strangers.  No  two 
in  the  mob  seemed  to  be  acquaintances.  And  every  lad,  each 
in  his  different  way,  was  furtively  on  the  defensive,  uneasily 
wondering  whether  some  misfortune  might  not  presently  come 
to  him  from  one  of  these  unknown  neighbours. 

A  few  of  the  recruits,  as  they  came  on  board,  looked  up  at 
Domini  as  she  leant  over  the  rail;  and  in  all  the  different 
coloured  and  shaped  eyes  she  thought  she  read  a  similar  dread 
and  nervous  hope  that  things  might  turn  out  pretty  well  for 
them  in  the  new  existence  that  had  to  be  faced:  The  Zouave, 
wholly  careless  or  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  he  was  an  in- 
carnation of  Africa  to  these  raw  peasants,  who  had  never  before 
stirred  beyond  the  provinces  where  they  were  born,  went  on 
taking  the  tickets,  and  tossing  the  woollen  rugs  to  the  passing 
figures,  and  pointing  ferociously  to  the  gangway.  He  got  very 
tired  of  his  task  towards  the  end,  and  showed  his  fatigue  to  the 
latest  comers,  shoving  their  rugs  into  their  arms  with  brusque 
violence.  And  when  at  length  the  wharf  was  bare  he  spat  on  it, 
rubbed  his  short-fingered,  sunburnt  hands  down  the  sides  of  his 
blue  jacket,  and  swaggered  on  board  with  the  air  of  a  dutiful  but 
injured  man  who  longed  to  do  harm  in  the  world.  By  this  time 
the  ship  was  about  to  cast  off,  and  the  recruits,  ranged  in  line 
along  the  bulwarks  of  the  lower  deck,  were  looking  in  silence 
towards  Marseilles,  which,  with  its  tangle  of  tall  houses,  its 
forest  of  masts,  its  long,  ugly  factories  and  workshops,  now 
represented  to  them  the  whole  of  France.  The  bronchial  hoot 
of  the  siren  rose  up  menacingly.  Suddenly  two  Arabs,  in  dirty 
white  burnouses  and  turbans  bound  with  cords  of  camel's  hair, 
came  running  along  the  wharf.  The  siren  hooted  again.  The 
Arabs  bounded  over  the  gangway  with  grave  faces.  All  the 
recruits  turned  to  examine  them  with  a  mixture  of  superiority 
and  deference,  such  as  a  schoolboy  might  display  when  observ- 
ing the  agilities  of  a  tiger.  The  ropes  fell  heavily  from  the 
posts  of  the  quay  into  the  water,  and  were  drawn  up  dripping 


4  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

by  the  sailors,  and  Le  General  Bertrand  began  to  move  out 
slowly  among  the  motionless  ships. 

Domini,  looking  towards  the  land  with  the  vague  and  yet 
inquiring  glance  of  those  who  are  going  out  to  sea,  noticed  the 
church  of  Notre  dame  de  la  Garde,  perched  on  its  high  hill,  and 
dominating  the  noisy  city,  the  harbour,  the  cold,  grey  squadrons 
of  the  rocks  and  Monte  Cristo's  dungeon.  At  the  time  she 
hardly  knew  it,  but  now,  as  she  lay  in  bed  in  the  silent  inn, 
she  remembered  that,  keeping  her  eyes  upon  the  church,  she 
had  murmured  a  confused  prayer  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  for  the 
recruits.  What  was  the  prayer?  She  could  scarcely  recall  it. 
A  woman's  petition,  perhaps,  against 'the  temptations  that  beset 
men  shifting  for  themselves  in  far-off  and  dangerous  countries; 
a  woman's  cry  to  a  woman  to  watch  over  all  those  who  wander. 

When  the  land  faded,  and  the  white  sea  rose,  less  romantic 
considerations  took  possession  of  her.  She  wished  to  sleep,  and 
drank  a  dose  of  a  drug.  It  did  not  act  completely,  but  only 
numbed  her  senses.  Through  the  long  hours  she  lay  in  the 
dark  cabin,  looking  at  the  faint  radiance  that  penetrated  through 
the  glass  shutters  of  the  skylight.  The  recruits,  humanised  and 
drawn  together  by  misery,  were  becoming  acquainted.  The 
incessant  murmur  of  their  voices  dropped  down  to  her,  with 
the  sound  of  the  waves,  and  of  the  mysterious  cries  and  creaking 
shudders  that  go  through  labouring  ships.  And  all  these  noises 
seemed  to  her  hoarse  and  pathetic,  suggestive,  too,  of  danger. 

When  they  reached  the  African  shore,  and  saw  the  lights  of 
houses  twinkling  upon  the  hills,  the  pale  recruits  were  mar- 
shalled on  the  white  road  by  Zouaves,  who  met  them  from  the 
barracks  of  Robertville.  Already  they  looked  older  than  they 
had  looked  when  they  embarked.  Domini  saw  them  march 
away  up  the  hill.  They  still  clung  to  their  bags  and  bundles. 
Some  of  them,  lifting  shaky  voices,  tried  to  sing  in  chorus.  One 
of  the  Zouaves  angrily  shouted  to  them  to  be  quiet.  They 
obeyed,  and  disappeared  heavily  into  the  shadows,  staring  about 
them  anxiously  at  the  feathery  palms  that  clustered  in  this  new 
and  dark  country,  and  at  the  shrouded  figures  of  Arabs  who  met 
them  on  the  way. 

The  red  brick  floor  was  heaving  gently,  Domjni  thought. 
She  found  herself  wondering  how  the  cane  chair  by  the  small 
wardrobe  kept  its  footing,  and  why  the  cracked  china  basin 
in  the  iron  washstand,  painted  bright  yellow,  did  not  stir  and 
rattle.  Her  dressing-bag  was  open.  She  could  see  the  silver 
backs  and  tops  of  the  brushes  and  bottles  in  it  gleaming.  They 


PRELUDE  5 

made  her  think  suddenly  of  England.  She  had  no  idea  why. 
But  it  was  too  warm  for  England.  There,  in  the  autumn 
time,  an  open  window  would  let  in  a  cold  air,  probably  a  biting 
blast.  The  wooden  shutter  would  be  shaking.  There  would 
be,  perhaps,  a  sound  of  rain.  And  Domini  found  herself  vaguely 
pitying  England  and  the  people  mewed  up  in  it  for  the 
winter.  Yet  how  many  winters  she  had  spent  there,  dreaming 
of  liberty  and  doing  dreary  things — things  without  savour,  with- 
out meaning,  without  salvation  for  brain  or  soul.  Her  mind  was 
still  dulled  to  a  certain  extent  by  the  narcotic  she  had  taken. 
She  was  a  strong  and  active  woman,  with  long  limbs  and  well- 
knit  muscles,  a  clever  fencer,  a  tireless  swimmer,  a  fine  horse- 
woman. But  to-night  she  felt  almost  neurotic,  like  one  of 
the  weak  or  dissipated  sisterhood  for  whom  "  rest  cures  "  are 
invented,  and  by  whom  bland  doctors  live.  That  heaving 
red  floor  continually  emphasised  for  her  her  present  feebleness. 
She  hated  feebleness.  So  she  blew  out  the  candle  and,  with 
misplaced  energy,  strove  resolutely  to  sleep.  Possibly  her 
resolution  defeated  its  o'bject.  She  continued  in  a  condition  of 
dull  and  heavy  wakefulness  till  the  darkness  became  intolera- 
ble to  her.  In  it  she  saw  perpetually  the  long  procession  of 
the  pale  recruits  winding  up  the  hill  of  Addouna  with  their 
bags  and  bundles,  like  spectres  on  a  way  of  dreams.  Finally 
she  resolved  to  accept  a  sleepless  night.  She  lit  her  candle 
again  and  saw  that  the  brick  floor  was  no  longer  heaving. 
Two  of  the  books  that  she  called  her  "  bed-books  "  lay  within 
easy  reach  of  her  hand.  One  was  Newman's  Dream  of 
Gerontius,  the  other  a  volume  of  the  Badminton  Library.  She 
chose  the  former  and  began  to  read. 

Towards  two  o'clock  she  heard  a  long-continued  rustling. 
At  first  she  supposed  that  her  tired  brain  was  still  playing  her 
tricks.  But  the  rustling  continued  and  grew  louder.  It 
sounded  like  a  noise  coming  from  something  very  wide,  and 
spread  out  as  a  veil  over  an  immense  surface.  She  got  up, 
walked  across  the  floor  to  the  open  window  and  unfastened  the 
persiennes.  Heavy  rain  was  falling.  The  night  was  very  black, 
and  smelt  rich  and  damp,  as  if  it  held  in  its  arms  strange 
offerings — a  merchandise  altogether  foreign,  tropical  and 
alluring.  As  she  stood  there,  face  to  face  with  a  wonder  that 
she  could  not  see,  Domini  forgot  Newman.  She  felt  the  brave 
companionship  of  mystery.  In  it  she  divined  the  beating  pulses, 
the  hot,  surging  blood  of  freedom. 

She  wanted  freedom,  a  wide  horizon,  the  great  winds,  the 


6  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

great  sun,  the  terrible  spaces,  the  glowing,  shimmering  radiance, 
the  hot,  entrancing  noons  and  bloomy,  purple  nights  of  Africa. 
She  wanted  the  nomad's  fires  and  the  acid  voices  of  the  Kabyle 
dogs.  She  wanted  the  roar  of  the  tom-toms,  the  clash  of  the 
cymbals,  the  rattle  of  the  negroes'  castanets,  the  fluttering, 
painted  figures  of  the  dancers.  She  wanted — more  than  she 
could  express,  more  than  she  knew.  It  was  there,  want,  aching 
in  her  heart,  as  she  drew  into  her  nostrils  this  strange  and 
wealthy  atmosphere. 

When  Domini  returned  to  her  bed  she  found  it  impossible 
to  read  any  more  Newman.  The  rain  and  the  scents  coming 
up  out  of  the  hidden  earth  of  Africa  had  carried  her  mind 
away,  as  if  on  a  magic  carpet.  She  was  content  now  to  lie 
awake  in  the  dark. 

Domini  was  thirty-two,  unmarried,  and  in  a  singularly  inde- 
pendent— some  might  have  thought  a  singularly  lonely — situa- 
tion. Her  father,  Lord  Rens,  had  recently  died,  leaving 
Domini,  who  was  his  only  child,  a  large  fortune.  His  life  had 
been  a  curious  and  a  tragic  one.  Lady  Rens,  Domini's  mother, 
had  been  a  great  beauty  of  the  gipsy  type,  the  daughter  of  a 
Hungarian  mother  and  of  Sir  Henry  Arlworth,  one  of  the  most 
prominent  and  ardent  English  Catholics  of  his  day.  A  son  of 
his  became  a  priest,  and  a  famous  preacher  and  writer  on 
religious  subjects.  Another  child,  a  daughter,  took  the  veil. 
Lady  Rens,  who  was  not  clever,  although  she  was  at  one  time 
almost  universally  considered  to  have  the  face  of  a  muse,  shared 
in  the  family  ardour  for  the  Church,  but  was  far  too  fond  of 
the  world  to  leave  it.  While  she  was  very  young  she  met  Lord 
Rens,  a  Lifeguardsman  of  twenty-six,  who  called  himself  a 
Protestant,  but  who  was  really  quite  happy  without  any  faith. 
He  fell  madly  in  love  with  her  and,  in  order  to  marry  her, 
became  a  Catholic,  and  even  a  very  devout  one,  aiding  his 
wife's  Church  by  every  means  in  his  power,  giving  large  sums 
to  Catholic  charities,  and  working,  with  almost  fiery  zeal,  for 
the  spread  of  Catholicism  in  England. 

Unfortunately,  his  new  faith  was  founded  only  on  love  for 
a  human  being,  and  when  Lady  Rens,  who  was  intensely  pas- 
sionate and  impulsive,  suddenly  threw  all  her  principles  to  the 
winds,  and  ran  away  with  a  Hungarian  musician,  who  had 
made  a  furore  one  season  in  London  by  his  magnificent  violin- 
playing,  her  husband,  stricken  in  his  soul,  and  also  wounded 
almost  to  the  death  in  his  pride,  abandoned  abruptly  the  religion 
of  the  woman  who  had  converted  and  betrayed  him. 


PRELUDE  7 

Domini  was  nineteen,  and  had  recently  been  presented  at 
Court  when  the  scandal  of  her  mother's  escapade  shook  the 
town,  and  changed  her  father  in  a  day  from  one  of  the  happiest 
to  one  of  the  most  cynical,  embittered  and  despairing  of  men. 
She,  who  had  been  brought  up  by  both  her  parents  as  a  Catholic, 
who  had  from  her  earliest  years  been  earnestly  educated  in  the 
beauties  of  religion,  was  now  exposed  to  the  almost  frantic 
persuasions  of  a  father  who,  hating  all  that  he  had  formerly 
loved,  abandoning  all  that,  influenced  by  his  faithless  wife,  he 
had  formerly  clung  to,  wished  to  carry  his  daughter  with  him 
into  his  new  and  most  miserable  way  of  life.  But  Domini, 
who,  with  much  of  her  mother's  dark  beauty,  had  inherited 
much  of  her  quick  vehemence  and  passion,  was  also  gifted  with 
brains,  and  with  a  certain  largeness  of  temperament  and  clear- 
ness of  insight  which  Lady  Rens  lacked.  Even  when  she  was 
still  quivering  under  the  shock  and  shame  of  her  mother's  guilt 
and  her  own  solitude,  Domini  was  unable  to  share  her  father's 
intensely  egoistic  view  of  the  religion  of  the  culprit.  She  could 
not  be  persuaded  that  the  faith  in  which  she  had  been  brought 
up  was  proved  to  be  a  sham  because  one  of  its  professors,  whom 
she  had  above  all  others  loved  and  trusted,  had  broken  away 
from  its  teachings  and  defied  her  own  belief.  She  would  not 
secede  with  her  father,  but  remained  in  the  Church  of  the 
mother  she  was  never  to  see  again,  and  this  in  spite  of  extraor- 
dinary and  dogged  efforts  on  the  part  of  Lord  Rens  to  pervert 
her  to  his  own  Atheism.  His  mind  had  been  so  warped  by  the 
agony  of  his  heart  that  he  had  come  to  feel  as  if  by  tearing  his 
only  child  from  the  religion  he  had  been  led  to  by  the  greatest 
sinner  he  had  known,  he  would  be,  in  some  degree  at  least, 
purifying  his  life  tarnished  by  his  wife's  conduct,  raising  again 
a  little  way  the  pride  she  had  trampled  in  the  dust. 

Her  uncle,  Father  Arlworth,  helped  Domini  by  his  support 
and  counsel  in  this  critical  period  of  her  life,  and  Lord  Rens 
in  time  ceased  from  the  endeavour  to  carry  his  child  with 
him  as  companion  in  his  tragic  journey  from  love  and  belief 
to  hatred  and  denial.  He  turned  to  the  violent  occupations  of 
despair,  and  the  last  years  of  his  life  were  hideous  enough, 
as  the  world  knew  and  Domini  sometimes  suspected.  But 
though  Domini  had  resisted  him  she  was  not  unmoved  or 
wholly  uninfluenced  by  her  mother's  desertion  and  its  effect 
upon  her  father.  She  remained  a  Catholic,  but  she  gradually 
ceased  from  being  a  devout  one.  Although  she  had  seemed 
to  stand  firm  she  had  in  truth  been  shaken,  if  not  in  her  belief, 


8  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

in  a  more  precious  thing — her  love.  She  complied  with  the 
ordinances,  but  felt  little  of  the  inner  beauty  of  her  faith. 
The  effort  she  had.  made  in  withstanding  her  father's  assault 
upon  it  had  exhausted  her.  Though  she  had  had  the  strength 
to  triumph  at  the  moment,  a  partial  and  secret  collapse  was 
the  price  she  had  afterwards  to  pay.  Father  Arlworth,  who 
had  a  subtle  understanding  of  human  nature,  noticed  that 
Domini  was  changed  and  slightly  hardened  by  the  tragedy  she 
had  known,  and  was  not  surprised  or  shocked.  Nor  did  he 
attempt  to  force  her  character  back  into  its  former  way  of 
beauty.  He  knew  that  to  do  so  would  be  dangerous,  that 
Domini's  nature  required  peace  in  which  to  become  absolutely 
normal  once  again  after  the  shock  it  had  sustained. 

When  Domini  was  twenty-one  he  died,  and  her  safest  guide, 
the  one  who  understood  her  best,  went  from  her.  The  years 
passed.  She  lived  with  her  embittered  father,  and  drifted  into 
the  unthinking  worldliness  of  the  life  of  her  order.  Her  home 
was  far  from  ideal.  Yet  she  would  not  marry.  The  wreck  of 
her  parents'  domestic  life  had  rendered  her  mistrustful  of 
human  relations.  She  had  seen  something  of  the  terror  of  love, 
and  could  not,  like  other  women,  regard  it  as  safety  and  as 
sweetness.  So  she  put  it  from  her,  and  strove  to  fill  her  life 
with  all  those  lesser  things  which  men  and  women  grasp,  as 
the  Chinese  grasp  the  opium  pipe,  those  things  which  lull  our 
comprehension  of  realities  to  sleep. 

When  Lord  Rens  died,  still  blaspheming,  and  without  any 
of  the  consolations  of  religion,  Domini  felt  the  imperious  need 
of  change.  She  did  not  grieve  actively  for  the  dead  man. 
In  his  last  years  they  had  been  very  far  apart,  and  his  death 
relieved  her  from  the  perpetual  contemplation  of  a  tragedy. 
Lord  Rens  had  grown  to  regard  his  daughter  almost  with 
enmity  in  his  enmity  against  her  mother's  religion,  which  was 
hers.  She  had  come  to  think  of  him  rather  with  pity  than 
with  love.  Yet  his  death  was  a  shock  to  her.  When  he  could 
speak  no  more,  but  only  lie  still,  she  remembered  suddenly  just 
what  he  had  been  before  her  mother's  flight.  The  succeeding 
period,  long  though  it  had  been  and  ugly,  was  blotted  out. 
She  wept  for  the  poor,  broken  life  now  ended,  and  was  afraid 
for  his  future  in  the  other  world.  His  departure  into  the  un- 
known roused  her  abruptly  to  a  clear  conception  of  how  his 
action  and  her  mother's  had  affected  her  own  character.  As 
she  stood  by  his  bed  she  wondered  what  she  might  have  been 
if  her  mother  had  been  true,  her  father  happy,  to  the  end.  Then 


PRELUDE  9 

she  felt  afraid  of  herself,  recognising  partially,  and  for  the  first 
time,  how  all  these  years  had  seen  her  long  indifference.  She 
felt  self-conscious  too,  ignorant  of  the  real  meaning  of  life, 
and  as  if  she  had  always  been,  and  still  remained,  rather  a 
complicated  piece  of  mechanism  than  a  woman.  A  desolate 
enervation  of  spirit  descended  upon  her,  a  sort  of  bitter,  and 
yet  dull,  perplexity.  She  began  to  wonder  what  she  was, 
capable  of  what,  of  how  much  good  or  evil,  and  to  feel  sure  that 
she  did  not  know,  had  never  known  or  tried  to  find  out.  Once, 
in  this  state  of  mind,  she  went  to  confession.  She  came  away 
feeling  that  she  had  just  joined  with  the  priest  in  a  farce.  How 
can  a  woman  who  knows  nothing  about  herself  make  anything 
but  a  worthless  confession  ?  she  thought.  To  say  what  you  have 
done  is  not  always  to  say  what  you  are.  And  only  what  you  are 
matters  eternally. 

Presently,  still  in  this  perplexity  of  spirit,  she  left  England 
with  only  her  maid  as  companion.  After  a  short  tour  in  the 
south  of  Europe,  with  which  she  was  too  familiar,  she  crossed 
the  sea  to  Africa,  which  she  had  never  seen.  Her  destination 
was  Beni-Mora.  She  had  chosen  it  because  she  liked  its  name, 
because  she  saw  on  the  map  that  it  was  an  oasis  in  the  Sahara 
Desert,  because  she  knew  it  was  small,  quiet,  yet  face  to  face 
with  an  immensity  of  which  she  had  often  dreamed.  Idly  she 
fancied  that  perhaps  in  the  sunny  solitude  of  Beni-Mora,  far 
from  all  the  friends  and  reminiscences  of  her  old  life,  she  might 
learn  to  understand  herself.  How?  She  did  not  know.  She 
did  not  seek  to  know.  Here  was  a  vague  pilgrimage,  as  many 
pilgrimages  are  in  this  world — the  journey  of  the  searcher  who 
knew  not  what  she  sought.  And  so  now  she  lay  in  the  dark, 
and  heard  the  rustle  of  the  warm  African  rain,  and  smelt  the 
perfumes  rising  from  the  ground,  and  felt  that  the  unknowrn 
was  very  near  her — the  unknown  with  all  its  blessed  possibilities 
of  change. 


CHAPTER   II 

LONG  before  dawn  the  Italian  waiter  rolled  off  his  little  bed, 
put  a  cap  on  his  head,  and  knocked  at  Domini's  and  at  Suzanne 
Charpot's  doors. 

It  was  still  dark,  and  still  raining,  when  the  two  women  came 
out  to  get  into  the  carriage  that  was  to  take  them  to  the  station. 
The  Place  de  la  Marine  was  a  sea  of  mud,  brown  and  sticky 


io  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

as  nougat.  Wet  palms  dripped  by  the  railing  near  a  desolate 
kiosk  painted  green  and  blue.  The  sky  was  grey  and  low. 
Curtains  of  tarpaulin  were  let  down  on  each  side  of  the  carriage, 
and  the  coachman,  who  looked  like  a  Maltese,  and  wore  a 
round  cap  edged  with  pale  yellow  fur,  was  muffled  up  to  the 
ears.  Suzanne's  round,  white  face  was  puffy  with  fatigue, 
and  her  dark  eyes,  generally  good-natured  and  hopeful,  were 
dreary,  and  squinted  slightly,  as  she  tipped  the  Italian  waiter, 
and  handed  her  mistress's  dressing-bag  and  rug  into  the  car- 
riage. The  waiter  stood  on  the  discoloured  step,  yawning  from 
ear  to  ear.  Even  the  tip  could  not  excite  him.  Before  the 
carriage  started  he  had  gone  into  the  hotel  and  banged  the 
door.  The  horses  trotted  quickly  through  the  mud,  descending 
the  hill.  One  of  the  tarpaulin  curtains  had  been  left  unbut- 
toned by  the  coachman.  It  flapped  to  and  fro,  and  when  its 
movement  was  outward  Domini  could  catch  short  glimpses  of 
mud,  of  glistening  palm-leaves  with  yellow  stems,  of  gas-lamps, 
and  of  something  that  was  like  an  extended  grey  nothingness. 
This  was  the  sea.  Twice  she  saw  Arabs  trudging  along,  hold- 
ing their  skirts  up  in  a  bunch  sideways,  and  showing  legs  bare 
beyond  the  knees.  Hoods  hid  their  faces.  They  appeared  to 
be  agitated  by  the  weather,  and  to  be  continually  trying  to  plant 
their  naked  feet  in  dry  places.  Suzanne,  who  sat  opposite  to 
Domini,  had  her  eyes  shut.  If  she  had  not  from  time  to  time 
passed  her  tongue  quickly  over  her  full,  pale  lips  she  would 
have  looked  like  a  dead  thing.  The  coquettish  angle  at  which 
her  little  black  hat  was  set  on  her  head  seemed  absurdly  in- 
appropriate to  the  occasion  and  her  mood.  It  suggested  a  hat 
being  worn  at  some  festival.  Her  black,  gloved  hands  were 
tightly  twisted  together  in  her  lap,  and  she  allowed  her  plump 
body  to  wag  quite  loosely  with  the  motion  of  the  carriage,  mak- 
ing no  attempt  at  resistance.  She  had  really  the  appearance  of 
a  corpse  sitting  up.  The  tarpaulin  flapped  monotonously.  The 
coachman  cried  out  in  the  dimness  to  his  horses  like  a  bird, 
prolonging  his  call  drearily,  and  then  violently  cracking  his 
whip.  Domini  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  loose  tarpaulin,  so 
that  she  might  not  miss  one  of  the  wet  visions  it  discovered 
by  its  reiterated  movement.  She  had  not  slept  at  all,  and  felt 
as  if  there  was  a  gritty  dryness  close  behind  her  eyes.  She  also 
felt  very  alert  and  enduring,  but  not  in  the  least  natural.  Had 
some  extraordinary  event  occurred;  had  the  carriage,  for  in- 
stance, rolled  over  the  edge  of  the  road  into  the  sea,  she  was 
convinced  that  she  could  not  have  managed  to  be  either  sur- 


PRELUDE  it 

prised  or  alarmed.  If  anyone  had  asked  her  whether  she  was 
tired  she  would  certainly  have  answered  "  No." 

Like  her  mother,  Domini  was  of  a  gipsy  type.  She  stood  five 
feet  ten,  had  thick,  almost  coarse  and  wavy  black  hair  that  was 
parted  in  the  middle  of  her  small  head,  dark,  almond-shaped, 
heavy-lidded  eyes,  and  a  clear,  warmly-white  skin,  unflecked 
with  colour.  She  never  flushed  under  the  influence  of  ex- 
citement or  emotion.  Her  forehead  was  broad  and  low.  Her 
eyebrows  were  long  and  level,  thicker  than  most  women's. 
The  shape  of  her  face  was  oval,  with  a  straight,  short  nose,  a 
short,  but  rather  prominent  and  round  chin,  and  a  very 
expressive  mouth,  not  very  small,  slightly  depressed  at  the  cor- 
ners, with  perfect  teeth,  and  red  lips  that  were  unusually  flex- 
ible. Her  figure  was  remarkably  athletic,  with  shoulders  that 
were  broad  in  a  woman,  and  a  naturally  small  waist.  Her 
hands  and  feet  were  also  small.  She  walked  splendidly,  like 
a  Syrian,  but  without  his  defiant  insolence.  In  her  face,  when 
it  was  in  repose,  there  was  usually  an  expression  of  still  indif- 
ference, some  thought  of  opposition.  She  looked  her  age,  and 
had  never  used  a  powder-puff  in  her  life.  She  could  smile 
easily  and  easily  become  animated,  and  in  her  animation  there 
was  often  fire,  as  in  her  calmness  there  was  sometimes  cloud. 
Timid  people  were  generally  disconcerted  by  her  appearance, 
and  her  manner  did  not  always  reassure  them.  Her  obvious 
physical  strength  had  something  surprising  in  it,  and  woke 
wonder  as  to  how  it  had  been,  or  might  be,  used.  Even  when 
her  eyes  were  shut  she  looked  singularly  wakeful. 

Domini  and  Suzanne  got  to  the  station  of  Robertville  much 
too  early.  The  large  hall  in  which  they  had  to  wait  was 
miserably  lit,  blank  and  decidedly  cold.  The  ticket-office  was 
on  the  left,  and  the  room  was  divided  into  two  parts  by  a 
broad,  low  counter,  on  which  the  heavy  luggage  was  placed 
before  being  weighed  by  two  unshaven  and  hulking  men  in  blue 
smocks.  Three  or  four  Arab  touts,  in  excessively  shabby 
European  clothes  and  turbans,  surrounded  Domini  with  offers 
of  assistance.  One,  the  dirtiest  of  the  group,  with  a  gaping 
eye-socket,  in  which  there  was  no  eye,  succeeded  by  his  pas- 
sionate volubility  and  impudence  in  attaching  himself  to  her  in 
a  sort  of  official  capacity.  He  spoke  fluent,  but  faulty,  French, 
which  attracted  Suzanne,  and,  being  abnormally  muscular  and 
active,  in  an  amazingly  short  time  got  hold  of  all  their  boxes 
and  bags  and  ranged  them  on  the  counter.  He  then  indulged 
in  a  dramatic  performance,  which  he  apparently  considered 


12  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

likely  to  rouse  into  life  and  attention  the  two  unshaven  men  in 
smocks,  who  were  smoking  cigarettes,  and  staring  vaguely  at 
the  metal  sheet  on  which  the  luggage  was  placed  to  be  weighed. 
Suzanne  remained  expectantly  in  attendance,  and  Domini, 
having  nothing  to  do,  and  seeing  no  bench  to  rest  on,  walked 
slowly  up  and  down  the  hall  near  the  entrance. 

It  was  now  half-past  four  in  the  morning,  and  in  the  air 
Domini  fancied  that  she  felt  the  cold  breath  of  the  coming 
dawn.  Beyond  the  opening  of  the  station,  as  she  passed  and 
repassed  in  her  slow  and  aimless  walk,  she  saw  the  soaking 
tarpaulin  curtains  of  the  carriage  she  had  just  left  glistening 
in  the  faint  lamp-light.  After  a  few  minutes  the  Arabs  she  had 
noticed  on  the  road  entered.  Their  brown,  slipperless  feet  were 
caked  with  sticky  mud,  and  directly  they  found  themselves 
under  shelter  in  a  dry  place  they  dropped  the  robes  they  had 
been  holding  up,  and,  bending  down,  began  to  flick  it  off  on  to 
the  floor  with  their  delicate  fingers.  They  did  this  with  ex- 
traordinary care  and  precision,  rubbed  the  soles  of  their  feet 
repeatedly  against  the  boards,  and  then  put  on  their  yellow 
slippers  and  threw  back  the  hoods  which  had  been  drawn  over 
their  heads. 

A  few  French  passengers  straggled  in,  yawning  and  looking 
irritable.  The  touts  surrounded  them,  with  noisy  offers  of 
assistance.  The  men  in  smocks  still  continued  to  smoke  and 
to  stare  at  the  metal  sheet  on  the  floor.  Although  the  luggage 
now  extended  in  quite  a  long  line  upon  the  counter  they  paid 
no  attention  to  it,  or  to  the  violent  and  reiterated  cries  of  the 
Arabs  who  stood  behind  it,  anxious  to  earn,  a  tip  by  getting  it 
weighed  and  registered  quickly.  Apparently  they  were  wrapped 
in  savage  dreams.  At  length  a  light  shone  through  the  small 
opening  of  the  ticket-office,  the  men  in  smocks  stirred  and  threw 
down  their  cigarette  stumps,  and  the  few  travellers  pressed  for- 
ward against  the  counter,  and  pointed  to  their  boxes  with  their 
sticks  and  hands.  Suzanne  Charpot  assumed  an  expression  of 
attentive  suspicion,  and  Domini  ceased  from  walking  up  and 
down.  Several  of  the  recruits  came  in  hastily,  accompanied  by 
two  Zouaves.  They  were  wet,  and  looked  dazed  and  tired  out. 
Grasping  their  bags  and  bundles  they  went  towards  trie  plat- 
form. A  train  glided  slowly  in,  gleaming  faintly  with  lights. 
Domini's  trunks  were  slammed  down  on  the  weighing  machine, 
and  Suzanne,  drawing  out  her  purse,  took  her  stand  before  the 
shining  hole  of  the  ticket-office. 

In  the  wet  darkness  there   rose  up   a  sound   like  a  child 


PRELUDE  13 

calling  out  an  insulting  remark.  This  was  followed  imme- 
diately by  the  piping  of  a  horn.  With  a  jerk  the  train  started, 
passed  one  by  one  the  station  lamps,  and,  with  a  steady  jangling 
and  rattling,  drew  out  into  the  shrouded  country.  Domini 
was  in  a  wretchedly-lit  carriage  with  three  Frenchmen,  facing 
the  door  which  opened  on  to  the  platform.  The  man  opposite 
to  her  was  enormously  fat,  with  a  coal-black  beard  growing  up 
to  his  eyes.  He  wore  black  gloves  and  trousers,  a  huge  black 
cloth  hat,  and  a  thick  black  cloak  with  a  black  buckle  near  the 
throat.  His  eyes  were  shut,  and  his  large,  heavy  head  drooped 
forward.  Domini  wondered  if  he  was  travelling  to  the  funeral 
of  some  relative.  The  two  other  men,  one  of  whom  looked  like 
a  commercial  traveller,  kept  shifting  their  feet  upon  the  hot- 
water  tins  that  lay  on  the  floor,  clearing  their  throats  and  sigh- 
ing loudly.  One  of  them  coughed,  let  down  the  window,  spat, 
drew  the  window  up,  sat  sideways,  put  his  legs  suddenly  up  on 
the  seat  and  groaned.  The  train  rattled  more  harshly,  and 
shook  from  side  to  side  as  it  got  up  speed.  Rain  streamed 
down  the  window-panes,  through  which  it  was  impossible  to 
see  anything. 

Domini  still  felt  alert,  but  an  overpowering  sensation  of 
dreariness  had  come  to  her.  She  did  not  attribute  this  sensa- 
tion to  fatigue.  She  did  not  try  to  analyse  it.  She  only  felt  as 
if  she  had  never  seen  or  heard  anything  that  was  not  cheerless, 
as  if  she  had  never  known  anything  that  was  not  either  sad,  or 
odd,  or  inexplicable.  What  did  she  remember?  A  train  of 
trifles  that  seemed  to  have  been  enough  to  fill  all  her  life;  the 
arrival  of  the  nervous  and  badly-dressed  recruits  at  the  wharf, 
their  embarkation,  their  last  staring  and  pathetic  look  at  France, 
the  stormy  voyage,  the  sordid  illness  of  almost  everyone  on 
board,  the  approach  long  after  sundown  to  the  small  and  un- 
known town,  of  which  it  was  impossible  to  see  anything  clearly, 
the  marshalling  of  the  recruits  pale  with  sickness,  their  pitiful 
attempt  at  cheerful  singing,  angrily  checked  by  the  Zouaves  in 
charge  of  them,  their  departure  up  the  hill  carrying  their  poor 
belongings,  the  sleepless  night,  the  sound  of  the  rain  falling, 
the  scents  rising  from  the  unseen  earth.  The  tap  of  the  Italian 
waiter  at  the  door,  the  damp  drive  to  the  station,  the  long  wait 
there,  the  sneering  signal,  followed  by  the  piping  horn,  the 
jerking  and  rattling  of  the  carriage,  the  dim  light  within  it 
falling  upon  the  stout  Frenchman  in  his  mourning,  the  stream- 
ing water  upon  the  window-panes.  These  few  sights,  sounds, 
sensations  were  like  the  story  of  a  life  to  Domini  just  then, 


H  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

were  more,  were  like  the  whole  of  life;  always  dull  noise, 
strange,  flitting,  pale  faces,  and  an  unknown  region  that  re- 
mained perpetually  invisible,  and  that  must  surely  be  ugly  or 
terrible. 

The  train  stopped  frequently  at  lonely  little  stations.  Domini 
looked  out,  letting  down  the  window  for  a  moment.  At  each 
station  she  saw  a  tiny  house  with  a  peaked  roof,  a  wooden 
railing  dividing  the  platform  from  the  country  road,  mud,  grass 
bending  beneath  the  weight  of  water-drops,  and  tall,  dripping, 
shaggy  eucalyptus  trees.  Sometimes  the  station-master's  children 
peered  at  the  train  with  curious  eyes,  and  depressed-looking 
Arabs,  carefully  wrapped  up,  their  mouths  and  chins  covered  by 
folds  of  linen,  got  in  and  out  slowly. 

Once  Domini  saw  two  women,  in  thin,  floating  white  dresses 
and  spangled  veils,  hurrying  by  like  ghosts  in  the  dark.  Heavy 
silver  ornaments  jangled  on  their  ankles,  above  their  black 
slippers  splashed  with  mud.  Their  sombre  eyes  stared  out  from 
circles  of  Kohl,  and,  with  stained,  claret-coloured  hands,  whose 
nails  were  bright  red,  they  clasped  their  light  and  bridal 
raiment  to  their  prominent  breasts.  They  were  escorted  by  a 
gigantic  man,  almost  black,  with  a  zigzag  scar  across  the  left 
side  of  his  face,  who  wore  a  shining  brown  burnous  over  a  grey 
woollen  jacket.  He  pushed  the  two  women  into  the  train  as 
if  he  were  pushing  bales,  and  got  in  after  them,  showing 
enormous  bare  legs,  with  calves  that  stuck  out  like  lumps  of 
iron. 

The  darkness  began  to  fade,  and  presently,  as  the  grey  light 
grew  slowly  stronger,  the  rain  ceased,  and  it  was  possible  to  see 
through  the  glass  of  the  carriage  window. 

The  country  began  to  discover  itself,  as  if  timidly,  to 
Domini's  eyes.  She  had  recently  noticed  that  the  train  was 
going  very  slowly,  and  she  could  now  see  why.  They  were 
mounting  a  steep  incline.  The  rich,  damp  earth  of  the  plains 
beyond  Robertville,  with  its  rank  grass,  its  moist  ploughland  and 
groves  of  eucalyptus,  was  already  left  behind.  The  train  was 
crawling  in  a  cup  of  the  hills,  grey,  sterile  and  abandoned,  with- 
out roads  or  houses,  without  a  single  tree.  Small,  grey-green 
bushes  flourished  here  and  there  on  tiny  humps  of  earth,  but 
they  seemed  rather  to  emphasise  than  to  diminish  the  aspect  of 
poverty  presented  by  the  soil,  over  which  the  dawn,  rising  from 
the  wet  arms  of  night,  shed  a  cold  and  reticent  illumination. 
By  a  gash  in  the  rounded  hills,  where  the  earth  was  brownish 
yellow,  a  flock  of  goats  with  flapping  ears  tripped  slowly,  fol- 


PRELUDE  15 

lowed  by  two  Arab  boys  in  rags.  One  of  the  boys  was  playing 
upon  a  pipe  covered  with  red  arabesques.  Domini  heard  two  or 
three  bars  of  the  melody.  They  were  ineffably  wild  and  bird- 
like,  very  clear  and  sweet.  They  seemed  to  her  to  match  exactly 
the  pure  and  ascetic  light  cast  by  the  dawn  over  these  bare, 
grey  hills,  and  they  stirred  her  abruptly  from  the  depressed 
lassitude  in  which  the  dreary  chances  of  recent  travel  had 
drowned  her.  She  began,  with  a  certain  faint  excitement,  to 
realise  that  these  low,  round-backed  hills  were  African,  that 
she  was  leaving  behind  the  sea,  so  many  of  whose  waves  wept 
along  European  shores,  that  somewhere,  beyond  the  broken 
and  near  horizon  line  toward  which  the  train  was  creeping, 
lay  the  great  desert,  her  destination,  with  its  pale  sands  and 
desolate  cities,  its  sunburnt  tribes  of  workers,  its  robbers,  war- 
riors and  priests,  its  ethereal  mysteries  of  mirage,  its  tragic 
splendours  of  colour,  of  tempest  and  of  heat.  A  sense  of  a 
wider  world  than  the  compressed  world  into  which  physical 
fatigue  had  decoyed  her  woke  in  her  brain  and  heart.  The 
little  Arab,  playing  carelessly  upon  his  pipe  with  the  red 
arabesques,  was  soon  invisible  among  his  goats  beside  the  dry 
water-course  that  was  probably  the  limit  of  his  journeying^ 
but  Domini  felt  that  like  a  musician  at  the  head  of  a  proces-^ 
sion  he  had  played  her  bravely  forward  into  the  dawn  and 
Africa. 

At  Ah-Souf  Domini  changed  into  another  train  and  had  the 
carriage  to  herself.  The  recruits  had  reached  their  destination. 
Hers  was  a  longer  pilgrimage  and  still  towards  the  sun.  She 
could  not  afterwards  remember  what  she  thought  about  during 
this  part  of  her  journey.  Subsequent  events  so  coloured  all  her 
memories  of  Africa  that  every  fold  of  its  sun-dried  soil  was 
endowed  in  her  mind  with  the  significance  of  a  living  thing. 
Every  palm  beside  a  well,  every  stunted  vine  and  clambering 
flower  upon  an  auberge  wall,  every  form  of  hill  and  silhouette 
of  shadow,  became  in  her  heart  intense  with  the  beauty  and  the 
pathos  she  used,  as  a  child,  to  think  must  lie  beyond  the  sunset. 

And  so  she  forgot. 

A  strange  sense  of  leaving  all  things  behind  had  stolen  over 
her.  She  was  really  fatigued  by  travel  and  by  want  of  sleep, 
but  she  did  not  know  it.  Lying  back  in  her  seat,  with  her  head 
against  the  dirty  white  covering  of  the  shaking  carriage,  she 
watched  the  great  change  that  was  coming  over  the  land. 

It  seemed  as  if  God  were  putting  forth  His  hand  to  with- 
draw gradually  all  things  of  His  creation,  all  the  furniture  He 


1 6  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

had  put  into  the  great  Palace  of  the  world;  as  if  He  meant  to 
leave  it  empty  and  utterly  naked. 

So  Domini  thought. 

First  He  took  the  rich  and  shaggy  grass,  and  all  the  little 
flowers  that  bloomed  modestly  in  it.  Then  He  drew  away  the 
orange  groves,  the  oleander  and  the  apricot  trees,  the  faithful 
eucalyptus  with  its  pale  stems  and  tressy  foliage,  the  sweet 
waters  that  fertilised  the  soil,  making  it  soft  and  brown  where 
the  plough  seamed  it  into  furrows,  the  tufted  plants  and  giant 
reeds  that  crowd  where  water  is.  And  still,  as  the  train  ran 
on,  His  gifts  were  fewer.  At  last  even  the  palms  were  gone, 
and  the  Barbary  fig  displayed  no  longer  among  the  crumbling 
boulders  its  tortured  strength,  and  the  pale  and  fantastic  evolu- 
tions of  its  unnatural  foliage.  Stones  lay  everywhere  upon  the 
pale  yellow  or  grey-brown  earth.  Crystals  glittered  in  the  sun 
like  shallow  jewels,  and  far  away,  under  clouds  that  were  dark 
and  feathery,  appeared  hard  and  relentless  mountains,  which 
looked  as  if  they  were  made  of  iron  carved  into  horrible  and 
jagged  shapes.  Where  they  fell  into  ravines  they  became  black. 
Their  swelling  bosses  and  flanks,  sharp  sometimes  as  the  spines 
of  animals,  were  steel  coloured.  Their  summits  were  purple, 
deepening  where  the  clouds  came  down  to  ebony. 

Journeying  towards  these  terrible  fastnesses  were  caravans  on 
which  Domini  looked  with  a  heavy  and  lethargic  interest. 
Many  Kabyles,  fairer  than  she  was,  moved  slowly  on  foot 
towards  their  rock  villages. 

Over  the  withered  earth  they  went  towards  the  distant 
mountains  and  the  clouds.  The  sun  was  hidden.  The  wind 
continued  to  rise.  Sand  found  its  way  in  through  the  carriage 
windows.  The  mountains,  as  Domini  saw  them  more  clearly, 
looked  more  gloomy,  more  unearthly.  There  was  something 
unnatural  in  their  hard  outlines,  in  the  rigid  mystery  of  their 
innumerable  clefts.  That  all  these  people  should  be  journeying 
towards  them  was  pathetic,  and  grieved  the  imagination. 

The  wind  seemed  so  cold,  now  the  sun  was  hidden,  that  she 
had  drawn  both  the  windows  up  and  thrown  a  rug  over  her. 
She  put  her  feet  up  on  the  opposite  seat,  and  half  closed  her 
eyes.  But  she  still  turned  them  towards  the  glass  on  her  left, 
and  watched.  It  seemed  to  her  quite  impossible  that  this  shak- 
ing and  slowly  moving  train  had  any  destination.  The  desola- 
tion of  the  country  had  become  so  absolute  that  she  could  not 
conceive  of  anything  but  still  greater  desolation  lying  beyond. 
She  had  no  feeling  that  she  was  merely  traversing  a  tract  of 


PRELUDE  17 

sterility.  Her  sensation  was  that  she  had  passed  the  boundary 
of  the  world  God  had  created,  and  come  into  some  other  place, 
upon  which  He  had  never  looked  and  of  which  He  had  no 
knowledge. 

•Abruptly  she  felt  as  if  her  father  had  entered  into  some 
such  region  when  he  forced  his  way  out  of  his  religion.  And  in 
this  region  he  had  died.  She  had  stood  on  the  verge  of  it  by  his 
deathbed.  Now  she  was  in  it. 

There  were  no  Arabs  journeying  now.  No  tents  huddled 
among  the  low  bushes.  The  last  sign  of  vegetation  was 
obliterated.  The  earth  rose  and  fell  in  a  series  of  humps  and 
depressions,  interspersed  with  piles  of  rock.  Every  shade  of 
yellow  and  of  brown  mingled  and  flowed  away  towards  the 
foot  of  the  mountains.  Here  and  there  dry  water-courses 
showed  their  teeth.  Their  crumbling  banks  were  like  the  rind 
of  an  orange.  Little  birds,  the  hue  of  the  earth,  with  tufted 
crests,  tripped  jauntily  among  the  stones,  fluttered  for  a  few 
yards  and  alighted,  with  an  air  of  strained  alertness,  as  if 
their  minute  bodies  were  full  of  trembling  wires.  They  were 
the  only  living  things  Domini  could  see. 

She  thought  again  of  her  father.  In  some  such  region  as 
this  his  soul  must  surely  be  wandering,  far  away  from  God. 

She  let  down  the  glass. 

The  wind  was  really  cold  and  blowing  gustily.  She  drank  it 
in  as  if  she  were  tasting  a  new  wine,  and  she  was  conscious  at 
once  that  she  had  never  before  breathed  such  air.  There  was 
a  wonderful,  a  startling  flavour  in  it,  the  flavour  of  gigantic 
spaces  and  of  rolling  leagues  of  emptiness.  Neither  among 
mountains  nor  upon  the  sea  had  she  ever  found  an  atmosphere 
so  fiercely  pure,  clean  and  lively  with  unutterable  freedom.  She 
leaned  out  to  it,  shutting  her  eyes.  And  now  that  she  saw 
nothing  her  palate  savoured  it  more  intensely.  The  thought  of 
her  father  fled  from  her.  All  detailed  thoughts,  all  the  minutiae 
of  the  mind  were  swept  away.  She  was  bracing  herself  to  an 
encounter  with  something  gigantic,  something  unshackled,  the 
being  from  whose  lips  this  wonderful  breath  flowed. 

When  two  lovers  kiss  their  breath  mingles,  and,  if  they 
really  love,  each  is  conscious  that  in  the  breath  of  the  loved 
one  is  the  loved  one's  soul,  coming  forth  from  the  temple  of 
the  body  through  the  temple  door.  As  Domini  leaned  out,  see- 
ing nothing,  she  was  conscious  that  in  this  breath  she  drank 
there  was  a  soul,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  it  was  the  soul  which 
flames  in  the  centre  of  things,  and  beyond.  She  could  not  think 


1 8  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

any  longer  of  her  father  as  an  outcast  because  he  had  aban- 
doned a  religion.  For  all  religions  were  surely  here,  marching 
side  by  side,  and  behind  them,  background  to  them,  there  was 
something  far  greater  than  any  religion.  Was  it  snow  or  fire? 
Was  it  the  lawlessness  of  that  which  has  made  laws,  or  the 
calm  of  that  which  has  brought  passion  into  being?  Greater 
love  than  is  in  any  creed,  or  greater  freedom  than  is  in  any 
human  liberty?  Domini  only  felt  that  if  she  had  ever  been  a 
slave  at  this  moment  she  would  have  died  of  joy,  realising  the 
boundless  freedom  that  circles  this  little  earth. 

"Thank  God  for  it!"  she  murmured  aloud. 

Her  own  words  woke  her  to  a  consciousness  of  ordinary 
things— or  made  her  sleep  to  the  eternal. 

She  closed  the  window  and  sat  down. 

A  little  later  the  sun  came  out  again,  and  the  various  shades 
of  yellow  and  of  orange  that  played  over  the  wrinkled  earth 
deepened  and  glowed.  Domini  had  sunk  into  a  lethargy  so 
complete  that,  though  not  asleep,  she  was  scarcely  aware  of  the 
sun.  She  was  dreaming  of  liberty. 

Presently  the  train  slackened  and  stopped.  She  heard  a  loud 
chattering  of  many  voices  and  looked  out.  The  sun  was  now 
shining  brilliantly,  and  she  saw  a  station  crowded  with  Arabs 
in  white  burnouses,  who  were  vociferously  greeting  friends  in 
the  train,  were  offering  enormous  oranges  for  sale  to  the  pas- 
sengers, or  were  walking  up  and  down  gazing  curiously  into 
the  carriages,  with  the  unblinking  determination  and  indiffer- 
ence to  a  return  of  scrutiny  which  she  had  already  noticed  and 
thought  animal.  A  guard  came  up,  told  her  the  place  was  El- 
Akbara,  and  that  the  train  would  stay  there  ten  minutes  to 
wait  for  the  train  from  Beni-Mora.  She  decided  to  get  out 
and  stretch  her  cramped  limbs.  On  the  platform  she  found 
Suzanne,  looking  like  a  person  who  had  just  been  slapped. 
One  side  of  the  maid's  face  was  flushed  and  covered  with  a 
faint  tracery  of  tiny  lines.  The  other  was  greyish  white.  Sleep 
hung  in  her  eyes,  over  which  the  lids  drooped  as  if  they  were 
partially  paralysed.  Her  fingers  were  yellow  from  peeling  an 
orange,  and  her  smart  little  hat  was  cocked  on  one  side.  There 
were  grains  of  sand  on  her  black  gown,  and  when  she  saw 
her  mistress  she  at  once  began  to  compress  her  lips,  and  to 
assume  the  expression  of  obstinate  patience  characteristic  of  prop- 
erly-brought-up  servants  who  find  themselves  travelling  far 
from  home  in  outlandish  places. 

"  Have  you  been  asleep,  Suzanne?  " 


PRELUDE  19 

"  No,  Mam'zelle." 

"  YouVe  had  an  orange  ?  " 

"  I  couldn't  get  it  down,  Mam'zelle." 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  if  you  can  get  a  cup  of  coffee  here  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,  Mam'zelle.  I  couldn't  touch  this  Arab 
stuff." 

"  We  shall  soon  be  there  now." 

Suzanne  made  all  her  naturally  small  features  look  much 
smaller,  glanced  down  at  her  skirt,  and  suddenly  began  to  shake 
the  grains  of  sand  from  it  in  an  outraged  manner,  at  the  same 
time  extending  her  left  foot.  Two  or  three  young  Arabs  came 
up  and  stood,  staring,  round  her.  Their  eyes  were  magnificent, 
and  gravely  observant.  Suzanne  went  on  shaking  and  patting 
her  skirt,  and  Domini  walked  away  down  the  platform,  won- 
dering what  a  French  maid's  mind  was  like.  Suzanne's  certainly 
had  its  limitations.  It  was  evident  that  she  was  horrified  by  the 
sight  of  bare  legs.  Why? 

As  Domini  walked  along  the  platform  among  the  fruit- 
sellers,  the  guides,  the  turbaned  porters  with  their  badges,  the 
staring  children  and  the  ragged  wanderers  who  thronged  about 
th<?  train,  she  thought  of  the  desert  to  which  she  was  now  so 
near.  It  lay,  she  knew,  beyond  the  terrific  wall  of  rock  that 
faced  her.  But  she  could  see  no  opening.  The  towering  sum- 
mits of  the  cliffs,  jagged  as  the  teeth  of  a  wolf,  broke  crudely 
upon  the  serene  purity  of  the  sky.  Somewhere,  concealed  in  the 
darkness  of  the  gorge  at  their  feet,  was  the  mouth  from  which 
had  poured  forth  that  wonderful  breath,  quivering  with  freedom 
and  with  unearthly  things.  The  sun  was  already  declining, 
and  the  light  it  cast  becomirjg  softened  and  romantic.  Soon 
there  would  be  evening  in  the  desert.  Then  there  would  be 
night.  And  she  would  be  there  in  the  night  with  all  things  that 
the  desert  holds. 

A  train  of  camels  was  passing  on  the  white  road  that  de- 
scended into  the  shadow  of  the  gorge.  Some  savage-looking 
men  accompanied  them,  crying  continually,  "  Oosh !  Oosh !  " 
They  disappeared,  desert-men  with  their  desert-beasts,  bound 
no  doubt  on  some  tremendous  journey  through  the  regions  of 
the  sun.  Where  would  they  at  last  unlade  the  groaning 
camels?  Domini  saw  them  in  the  midst  of  dunes  red  with  the 
dying  fires  of  the  west.  And  their  shadows  lay  along  the  sands 
like  weary  things  reposing. 

She  started  when  a  low  voice  spoke  to  her  in  French,  and, 
turning  round,  saw  a  tall  Arab  boy,  magnificently  dressed  in 


20  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

pale  blue  cloth  trousers,  a  Zouave  jacket  braided  with  gold, 
and  a  fez,  standing  near  her.  She  was  struck  by  the  colour 
of  his  skin,  which  was  faint  as  the  colour  of  cafe  au  lait,  and  by 
the  contrast  between  his  huge  bulk  and  his  languid,  almost 
effeminate,  demeanour.  As  she  turned  he  smiled  at  her  calmly, 
and  lifted  one  hand  toward  the  wall  of  rock. 

"  Madame  has  seen  the  desert  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Never,"  answered  Domini. 

"  It  is  the  garden  of  oblivion,"  he  said,  still  in  a  low  voice, 
and  speaking  with  a  delicate  refinement  that  was  almost  minc- 
ing. "  In  the  desert  one  forgets  everything ;  even  the  little  heart 
one  loves,  and  the  desire  of  one's  own  soul." 

"  How  can  that  be  ?  "  asked  Domini. 

"  Shal-lah.  It  is  the  will  of  God.  One  remembers  nothing 
any  more." 

His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  gigantic  pinnacles  of  the  rocks. 
There  was  something  fanatical  and  highly  imaginative  in  their 
gaze. 

"  What  is  your  name?  "  Domini  asked. 

"  Batouch,  Madame.    You  are  going  to  Beni-Mora?" 

"  Yes,  Batouch." 

"  I  too/  To-night,  under  the  mimosa  trees,  I  shall  compose  a 
poem.  It  will  be  addressed  to  Irena,  the  dancing-girl.  She  is  like 
the  little  moon  when  it  first  comes  up  above  the  palm  trees." 

Just  then  the  train  from  Beni-Mora  ran  into  the  station,  and 
Domini  turned  to  seek  her  carriage.  As  she  was  coming  to  it 
she  noticed,  with  the  pang  of  the  selfish  traveller  who  wishes 
to  be  undisturbed,  that  a  tall  man,  attended  by  an  Arab  porter 
holding  a  green  bag,  was  at  the  door  of  it  and  was  evidently 
about  to  get  in.  He  glanced  round  as  Domini  came  up,  half 
drew  back  rather  awkwardly  as  if  to  allow  her  to  precede  him, 
then  suddenly  sprang  in  before  her.  The  Arab  lifted  in  the 
bag,  and  the  man,  endeavouring  hastily  to  thrust  some  money 
into  his  hand,  dropped  the  coin,  which  fell  down  between  the 
step  of  the  carriage  and  the  platform.  The  Arab  immediately 
made  a  greedy  dive  after  it,  interposing  his  body  between 
Domini  and  the  train;  and  she  was  obliged  to  stand  waiting 
while  he  looked  for  it,  grubbing  frantically  in  the  earth  with 
his  brown  fingers,  and  uttering  muffled  exclamations,  apparently 
of  rage.  Meanwhile,  the  tall  man  had  put  the  green  bag  up 
on  the  rack,  gone  quickly  to  the  far  side  of  the  carriage,  and  sat 
down  looking  out  of  the  window. 

Domini  was  struck  by  the  mixture  of  indecision  and  blunder- 


PRELUDE  21 

ing  haste  which  he  had  shown,  and  by  his  impoliteness. 
Evidently  he  was  not  a  gentleman,  she  thought,  or  he  would 
surely  have  obeyed  his  first  impulse  and  allowed  her  to  get  into 
the  train  before  him.  It  seemed,  too,  as  if  he  were  determined 
to  be  discourteous,  for  he  sat  with  his  shoulder  deliberately 
turned  towards  the  door,  and  made  no  attempt  to  get  his  Arab 
out  of  the  way,  although  the  train  was  just  about  to  start. 
Domini  was  very  tired,  and  she  began  to  feel  angry  with  him, 
contemptuous  too.  The  Arab  could  not  find  the  money,  and  the 
little  horn  now  piped  its  warning  of  departure.  It  was  absolutely 
necessary  for  her  to  get  in  at  once  if  she  did  not  mean  to  stay 
at  El-Akbara.  She  tried  to  pass  the  grovelling  Arab,  but  as  she 
did  so  he  suddenly  sprang  up,  jumped  on  to  the  step  of  the 
carriage,  and,  thrusting  his  body  half  through  the  doorway, 
began  to  address  a  torrent  of  Arabic  to  the  passenger  within. 
The  horn  sounded  again,  and  the  carriage  jerked  backwards 
preparatory  to  starting  on  its  way  to  Beni-Mora. 

Domini  caught  hold  of  the  short  European  jacket  the  Arab 
was  wearing,  and  said  in  French: 

"  You  must  let  me  get  in  at  once.    The  train  is  going." 

The  man,  however,  intent  on  replacing  the  coin  he  had  lost, 
took  no  notice  of  her,  but  went  on  vociferating  and  gesticulating. 
The  traveller  said  something  in  Arabic.  Domini  was  now  very 
angry.  She  gripped  the  jacket,  exerted  all  her  force,  and  pulled 
the  Arab  violently  from  the  door.  He  alighted  on  the  platform 
beside  her  and  nearly  fell.  Before  he  had  recovered  himself  she 
sprang  up  into  the  train,  which  began  to  move  at  that  very 
moment.  As  she  got  in,  the  man  who  had  caused  all  the  bother 
was  leaning  forward  with  a  bit  of  silver  in  his  hand,  looking  as  if 
he  were  about  to  leave  his  seat.  Domini  cast  a  glance  of  contempt 
at  him,  and  he  turned  quickly  to  the  window  again  and  stared 
out,  at  the  same  time  putting  the  coin  back  into  his  pocket. 
A  dull  flush  rose  on  his  cheek,  but  he  attempted  no  apology, 
and  did  not  even  offer  to  fasten  the  lower  handle  of  the  door. 

"What  a  boor!"  Domini  thought  as  she  bent  out  of  the 
window  to  do  it. 

When  she  turned  from  the  door,  after  securing  the  handle, 
she  found  the  carriage  full  of  a  pale  twilight.  The  train  was 
stealing  into  the  gorge,  following  the  caravan  of  camels  which 
she  had  seen  disappearing.  She  paid  no  more  attention  to  her 
companion,  and  her  feeling  of  acute  irritation  against  him  died 
away  for  the  moment.  The  towering  cliffs  cast  mighty  shadows, 
the  darkness  deepened,  the  train,  quickening  its  speed,  seemed 


22  THE   GARDEN  OF  ALLAH1 

straining  forward  into  the  arms  of  night.  There  was  a  chill  in 
the  air.  Domini  drank  it  into  her  lungs  again,  and  again  was 
startled,  stirred,  by  the  life  and  the  mentality  of  it.  She  was 
conscious  of  receiving  it  with  passion,  as  if,  indeed,  she  held  her 
lips  to  a  mouth  and  drank  some  being's  very  nature  into  hers. 
She  forgot  her  recent  vexation  and  the  man  who  had  caused  it. 
She  forgot  everything  in  mere  sensation.  She  had  no  time  to 
ask,  "Whither  am  I  going?  "  She  felt  like  one  borne  upon  a 
wave,  seaward,  to  the  wonder,  to  the  danger,  perhaps,  of  a  mur- 
muring unknown.  The  rocks  leaned  forward ;  their  teeth  were 
fastened  in  the  sky;  they  enclosed  the  train,  banishing  the  sun 
and  the  world  from  all  the  lives  within  it.  She  caught  a  fleeting 
glimpse  of  rushing  waters  far  beneath  her;  of  crumbling  banks, 
covered  with  debris  like  the  banks  of  a  disused  quarry;  of 
shattered  boulders,  grouped  in  a  wild  disorder,  as  if  they  had 
been  vomited  forth  from  some  underworld  or  cast  headlong 
from  the  sky;  of  the  flying  shapes  of  fruit  trees,  mulberries  and 
apricot  trees,  oleanders  and  palms ;  of  dull  yellow  walls  guarding 
pools  the  colour  of  absinthe,  imperturbable  and  still.  A  strong 
impression  of  increasing  cold  and  darkness  grew  in  her,  and  the 
noises  of  the  train  became  hollow,  and  seemed  to  be  expanding, 
as  if  they  were  striving  to  press  through  the  impending  rocks  and 
find  an  outlet  into  space;  failing,  they  rose  angrily,  violently,  in 
Domini's  ears,  protesting,  wrangling,  shouting,  declaiming.  The 
darkness  became  like  the  darkness  of  a  nightmare.  All  the  trees 
vanished,  as  if  they  fled  in  fear.  The  rocks  closed  in  as  if  to 
crush  the  train.  There  was  a  moment  in  which  Domini  shut 
her  eyes,  like  one  expectant  of  a  tremendous  blow  that  cannot 
be  avoided. 

She  opened  them  to  a  flood  of  gold,  out  of  which  the  face  of 
a  man  looked,  like  a  face  looking  out  ;of  the  heart  of  the  sun. 


CHAPTER    III 

IT  flashed  upon  her  with  the  desert,  with  the  burning  heaps  of 
carnation  and  orange-coloured  rocks,  with  the  first  sand  wilder- 
ness, the  first  brown  villages  glowing  in  the  late  radiance  of  the 
afternoon  like  carven  things  of  bronze,  the  first  oasis  of  palms, 
deep  green  as  a  wave  of  the  sea  and  moving  like  a  wave,  the  first 
wonder  of  Sahara  warmth  and  Sahara  distance.  She  passed 
through  the  golden  door  into  the  blue  country,  and  saw  this 
face,  and,  for  a  moment,  moved  by  the  exalted  sensation  of  a 


PRELUDE  23 

magical  change  in  all  her  world,  she  looked  at  it  simply  as  a  new 
sight  presented,  with  the  sun,  the  mighty  rocks,  the  hard,  blind 
villages,  and  the  dense  trees,  to  her  eyes,  and  connected  it  with 
nothing.  It  was  part  of  this  strange  and  glorious  desert  region 
to  her.  That  was  all,  for  a  moment. 

In  the  play  of  untempered  golden  light  the  face  seemed  pale. 
It  was  narrow,  rather  long,  with  marked  and  prominent  features, 
a  nose  with  a  high  bridge,  a  mouth  with  straight,  red  lips,  and  a 
powerful  chin.  The  eyes  were  hazel,  almost  yellow,  with  curious 
markings  of  a  darker  shade  in  the  yellow,  dark  centres  that 
looked  black,  and  dark  outer  circles.  The  eyelashes  were  very 
long,  the  eyebrows  thick  and  strongly  curved.  The  forehead 
was  high,  and  swelled  out  slightly  above  the  temples.  There 
was  no  hair  on  the  face,  which  was  closely  shaved.  Near  the 
mouth  were  two  faint  lines  that  made  Domini  think  of  physical 
suffering,  and  also  of  mediaeval  knights.  Despite  the  glory  of 
the  sunshine  there  seemed  to  be  a  shadow  falling  across  the 
face. 

This  was  all  that  Domini  noticed  before  the  spell  of  change 
and  the  abrupt  glory  was  broken,  and  she  knew  that  she  was 
staring  into  the  face  of  the  man  who  had  behaved  so  rudely  at 
the  station  of  El-Akbara.  The  knowledge  gave  her  a  definite 
shock,  and  she  thought  that  her  expression  must  have  changed 
abruptly,  for  a  dull  flush  rose  on  the  stranger's  thin  cheeks  and 
mounted  to  his  rugged  forehead.  He  glanced  out  of  the  window 
and  moved  his  hands  uneasily.  Domini  noticed  that  they 
scarcely  tallied  with  his  face.  Though  scrupulously  clean,  they 
looked  like  the  hands  of  a  labourer,  hard,  broad,  and  brown. 
Even  his  wrists,  and  a  small  section  of  his  left  forearm,  which 
showed  as  he  lifted  his  left  hand  from  one  knee  to  the  other, 
were  heavily  tinted  by  the  sun.  The  spaces  between  the  fingers 
were  wide,  as  they  usually  are  in  hands  accustomed  to  grasping 
implements,  but  the  fingers  themselves  were  rather  delicate  and 
artistic. 

Domini  observed  this  swiftly.  Then  she  saw  that  her  neigh- 
bour was  unpleasantly  conscious  of  her  observation.  This  vexed 
her  vaguely,  perhaps  because  even  so  trifling  a  circumstance  was 
like  a  thin  link  between  them.  She  snapped  it  by  ceasing  to 
look  at  or  think  of  him.  The  window  was  down.  A  delicate 
and  warm  breeze  drifted  in,  coming  from  the  thickets  of  the 
palms.  In  flashing  out  of  the  darkness  of  the  gorge  Domini 
had  had  the  sensation  of  passing  into  a  new  world  and  a  new 
atmosphere.  The  sensation  stayed  with  her  now  that  she  was 


24  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

no  longer  dreaming  or  giving  the  reins  to  her  imagination,  but 
was  calmly  herself.  Against  the  terrible  rampart  of  rock  the 
winds  beat  across  the  land  of  the  Tell.  But  they  die  there 
frustrated.  And  the  rains  journey  thither  and  fail,  sinking  into 
the  absinthe-coloured  pools  of  the  gorge.  And  the  snows  and 
even  the  clouds  stop,  exhausted  in  their  pilgrimage.  The  gorge 
is  not  their  goal,  but  it  is  their  grave,  and  the  desert  never  sees 
their  burial.  So  Domini's  first  sense  of  casting  away  the  known 
remained,  and  even  grew,  but  now  strongly  and  quietly.  It  was 
well  founded,  she  thought.  For  she  looked  out  of  the  carriage 
window  towards  the  barrier  she  was  leaving,  and  saw  that  on  this 
side,  guarding  the  desert  from  the  world  that  is  not  desert,  it  was 
pink  in  the  evening  light,  deepening  here  and  there  to  rose 
colour,  whereas  on  the  far  side  it  had  a  rainy  hue  as  of  rocks  in 
England.  And  there  was  a  lustre  of  gold  in  the  hills,  tints  of 
glowing  bronze  slashed  with  a  red  line  as  the  heart  of  a  wound, 
but  recalling  the  heart  of  a  flower.  The  folds  of  the  earth 
glistened.  There  was  flame  down  there  in  the  river  bed.  The 
wreckage  of  the  land,  the  broken  fragments,  gleamed  as  if 
braided  with  precious  things.  Everywhere  the  salt  crystals 
sparkled  with  the  violence  of  diamonds.  Everywhere  there  was 
a  strength  of  colour  that  hurled  itself  to  the  gaze,  unabashed 
and  almost  savage,  the  colour  of  summer  that  never  ceases,  of 
heat  that  seldom  dies,  in  a  land  where  there  is  no  autumn  and 
seldom  a  flitting  cold. 

Down  on  the  road  near  the  village  there  were  people;  old 
men  playing  the  "  lady's  game  "  with  stones  set  in  squares  of 
sand,  women  peeping  from  flat  roofs  and  doorways,  children 
driving  goats.  A  man,  like  a  fair  and  beautiful  Christ,  with 
long  hair  and  a  curling  beard,  beat  on  the  ground  with  a  staff 
and  howled  some  tuneless  notes.  He  was  dressed  in  red  and 
green.  No  one  heeded  him.  A  distant  sound  of  the  beating 
of  drums  rose  in  the  air,  mingled  with  piercing  cries  uttered  by 
a  nasal  voice.  And  as  if  below  it,  like  the  orchestral  accom- 
paniment of  a  dramatic  solo,  hummed  many  blending  noises; 
faint  calls  of  labourers  in  the  palm-gardens  and  of  women  at  the 
wells;  chatter  of  children  in  dusky  courts  sheltered  with  reeds 
and  pale-stemmed  grasses;  dim  pipings  of  homeward-coming 
shepherds  drowned,  with  their  pattering  charges,  in  the  golden 
vapours  of  the  west ;  soft  twitterings  of  birds  beyond  brown  walls 
in  green  seclusions ;  dull  barking  of  guard  dogs ;  mutter  of  camel 
drivers  to  their  velvet-footed  beasts. 

The  caravan  which  Domini  had  seen  descending  into  the 


PRELUDE  25 

gorge  reappeared,  moving  deliberately  along  the  desert  road 
towards  the  south.  A  watch-tower  peeped  above  the  palms. 
Doves  were  circling  round  it.  Many  of  them  were  white.  They 
flew  like  ivory  things  above  this  tower  of  glowing  bronze,  which 
slept  at  the  foot  of  the  pink  rocks.  On  the  left  rose  a  mass  of 
blood-red  earth  and  stone.  Slanting  rays  of  the  sun  struck  it, 
and  it  glowed  mysteriously  like  a  mighty  jewel. 

As  Domini  leaned  out  of  the  window,  and  the  salt  crystals 
sparkled  to  her  eyes,  and  the  palms  swayed  languidly  above  the 
waters,  and  the  rose  and  mauve  of  the  hills,  the  red  and  orange 
of  the  earth,  streamed  by  in  the  flames  of  the  sun  before  the 
passing  train  like  a  barbaric  procession,  to  the  sound  of  the 
hidden  drums,  the  cry  of  the  hidden  priest,  and  all  the  whisper- 
ing melodies  of  these  strange  and  unknown  lives,  tears  started 
into  her  eyes.  The  entrance  into  this  land  of  flame  and  colour, 
through  its  narrow  and  terrific  portal,  stirred  her  almost  beyond 
her  present  strength.  The  glory  of  this  world  mounted  to  her 
heart,  oppressing  it.  The  embrace  of  Nature  was  so  violent 
that  it  crushed  her.  She  felt  like  a  little  fly  that  had  sought  to 
wing  its  way  to  the  sun  and,  at  a  million  milt3'  distance  from  it, 
was  being  shrivelled  by  its  heat.  When  all  the  voices  of  the  vil- 
lage fainted  away  she  was  glad,  although  she  strained  her  ears  to 
hear  their  fading  echoes.  Suddenly  she  knew  that  she  was 
very  tired,  so  tired  that  emotions  acted  upon  her  as  physical 
exertion  acts  upon  an  exhausted  man.  She  sat  down  and 
shut  her  eyes.  For  a  long  time  she  stayed  with  her  eyes 
shut,  but  she  knew  that  on  the  windows  strange  lights  were 
glittering,  that  the  carriage  was  slowly  filling  with  the  ineffable 
splendours  of  the  west.  Long  afterwards  she  often  wondered 
whether  she  endowed  the  sunset  of  that  day  with  supernatural 
glories  because  she  was  so  tired.  Perhaps  the  salt  mountain 
of  El-Alia  did  not  really  sparkle  like  the  celestial  mountains  in 
the  visions  of  the  saints.  Perhaps  the  long  chain  of  the  Aures 
did  not  really  look  as  if  all  its  narrow  clefts  had  been  powdered 
with  the  soft  and  bloomy  leaves  of  unearthly  violets,  and  the 
desert  was  not  cloudy  in  the  distance  towards  the  Zibans  with 
the  magical  blue  she  thought  she  saw  there,  a  blue  neither 
of  sky  nor  sea,  but  like  the  hue  at  the  edge  of  a  flame  in 
the  heart  of  a  wood  fire.  She  often  wondered,  but  she  never 
knew. 

The  sound  of  a  movement  made  her  look  up.  Her  com- 
panion was  changing  his  place  and  going  to  the  other  side 
of  the  compartment.  He  walked  softly,  no  doubt  with  the 


26  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

desire  not  to  disturb  Domini.  His  back  was  towards  her  for 
an  instant,  and  she  noticed  that  he  was  a  powerful  man,  though 
very  thin,  and  that  his  gait  was  heavy.  It  made  her  think  again 
of  his  labourer's  hands,  and  she  began  to  wonder  idly  what  was 
his  rank  and  what  he  did.  He  sat  down  in  the  far  corner  on 
the  same  side  as  herself  and  stared  out  of  his  window,  crossing 
his  legs.  He  wore  large  boots  with  square  toes,  clumsy  and 
unfashionable,  but  comfortable  and  good  for  walking  in.  His 
clothes  had  obviously  been  made  by  a  French  tailor.  The  stuff 
of  them  was  grey  and  woolly,  and  they  were  cut  tighter  to  the 
figure  than  English  clothes  generally  are.  He  had  on  a  black 
silk  necktie,  and  a  soft  brown  travelling  hat  dented  in  the 
middle.  By  the  way  in  which  he  looked  out  of  the  window, 
Domini  judged  that  he,  too,  was  seeing  the  desert  for  the  first 
time.  There  was  something  almost  passionately  attentive  in 
his  attitude,  something  of  strained  eagerness  in  that  part  of  his 
face  which  she  could  see  from  where  she  was  sitting.  His 
cheek  was  not  pale,  as  she  had  thought  at  first,  but  brown, 
obviously  burnt  by  the  sun  of  Africa.  But  she  felt  that  under- 
neath the  sunburn  there  was  pallor.  She  fancied  he  might  be 
a  painter,  and  was  noting  all  the  extraordinary  colour  effects 
with  the  definiteness  of  a  man  who  meant,  perhaps,  to  repro- 
duce them  on  canvas. 

The  light,  which  had  now  the  peculiar,  almost  supernatural 
softness  and  limpidity  of  light  falling  at  evening  from  a  declin- 
ing sun  in  a  hot  country,  came  full  upon  him,  and  brightened 
his  hair.  Domini  saw  that  it  was  brown  with  some  chestnut 
in  it,  thick,  and  cut  extremely  short,  as  if  his  head  had  recently 
been  shaved.  She  felt  convinced  that  he  was  not  French.  He 
might  be  an  Austrian,  perhaps,  or  a  Russian  from  the  south  of 
Russia.  He  remained  motionless  in  that  attitude  of  profound 
observation.  It  suggested  great  force  not  merely  of  body,  but 
also  of  mind,  an  almost  abnormal  concentration  upon  the  thing 
observed.  This  was  a  man  who  could  surely  shut  out  the  whole 
world  to  look  at  a  grain  of  sand,  if  he  thought  it  beautiful  or 
interesting. 

They  were  near  Beni-Mora  now.  Its  palms  appeared  far  off, 
and  in  the  midst  of  them  a  snow-white  tower.  The  Sahara  lay 
beyond  and  around  it,  rolling  away  from  the  foot  of  low,  brown 
hills,'  that  looked  as  if  they  had  been  covered  with  a  soft  powder 
of  bronze.  A  long  spur  of  rose-coloured  mountains  stretched 
away  towards  the  south.  The  sun  was  very  near  his  setting. 
Small,  red  clouds  floated  in  the  western  quarter  of  the  sky, 


PRELUDE  27 

and  the  far  desert  was  becoming  mysteriously  dim  and  blue 
like  a  remote  sea.  Here  and  there  thin  wreaths  of  smoke 
ascended  from  it,  and  lights  glittered  in  it,  like  earth-bound 
stars. 

Domini  had  never  before  understood  how  strangely,  how 
strenuously,  colour  can  at  moments  appeal  to  the  imagination. 
In  this  pageant  of  the  East  she  saw  arise  the  naked  soul  of 
Africa;  no  faded,  gentle  thing,  fearful  of  being  seen,  fearful 
of  being  known  and  understood;  but  a  phenomenon  vital, 
bold  and  gorgeous,  like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet  pealing  a 
great  reveille.  As  she  looked  on  this  flaming  land  laid  fear- 
lessly bare  before  her,  disdaining  the  clothing  of  grass,  plant 
and  flower,  of  stream  and  tree,  displaying  itself  with  an  almost 
brazen  insouciance,  confident  in  its  spacious  power,  and  in  its 
golden  pride,  her  heart  leaped  up  as  if  in  answer  to  a  deliberate 
appeal.  The  fatigue  in  her  died.  She  responded  to  this  reveille 
like  a  young  warrior  who,  so  soon  as  he  is  wakened,  stretches 
out  his  hand  for  his  sword.  The  sunset  flamed  on  her  clear, 
white  cheeks,  giving  them  its  hue  of  life.  And  her  nature 
flamed  to  meet  it.  In  the  huge  spaces  of  the  Sahara  her  soul 
seemed  to  hear  the  footsteps  of  Freedom  treading  towards  the 
south.  And  all  her  dull  perplexities,  all  her  bitterness  of  ennui, 
all  her  questionings  and  doubts,  were  swept  away  on  the  keen 
desert  wind  into  the  endless  plains.  She  had  come  from  her 
last  confession  asking  herself,  "  What  am  I  ?  "  She  had  felt 
infinitely  small  confronted  with  the  pettiness  of  modern,  civi- 
lised life  in  a  narrow,  crowded  world.  Now  she  did  not  torture 
herself  with  any  questions,  for  she  knew  that  something  large, 
something  capable,  something  perhaps  even  noble,  rose  up 
within  her  to  greet  all  this  nobility,  all  this  mighty  frankness 
and  fierce,  undressed  sincerity  of  nature.  This  desert  and  this 
sun  would  be  her  comrades,  and  she  was  not  afraid  of  them. 

Without  being  aware  of  it  she  breathed  out  a  great  sigh, 
feeling  the  necessity  of  liberating  her  joy  of  spirit,  of  letting 
the  body,  however  inadequately  and  absurdly,  make  some  dem- 
onstration in  response  to  the  secret  stirring  of  the  soul.  The 
man  in  the  far  corner  of  the  carriage  turned  and  looked  at  her. 
When  she  heard  this  movement  Domini  remembered  her  irrita- 
tion against  him  at  El-Akbara.  In  this  splendid  moment  the 
feeling  seemed  to  her  so  paltry  and  contemptible  that  she  had 
a  lively  impulse  to  make  amends  for  the  angry  look  she  had 
cast  at  him.  Possibly,  had  she  been  quite  normal,  she  would 
have  checked  such  an  impulse.  The  voice  of  conventionality 


28  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

would  have  made  itself  heard.  But  Domini  could  act  vigor- 
ously, and  quite  carelessly,  when  she  was  moved.  And  she 
was  deeply  moved  now,  and  longed  to  lavish  the  humanity, 
the  sympathy  and  ardour  that  were  quick  in  her.  In  answer 
to  the  stranger's  movement  she  turned  towards  him,  opening 
her  lips  to  speak  to  him.  Afterwards  she  never  knew  what  she 
meant  to  say,  whether,  if  she  had  spoken,  the  words  would  have 
been  French  or  English.  For  she  did  not  speak. 

The  man's  face  was  illuminated  by  the  setting  sun  as  he 
sat  half  round  on  his  seat,  leaning  with  his  right  hand  palm 
downwards  on  the  cushions.  The  light  glittered  on  his  short 
hair.  He  had  pushed  back  his  soft  hat,  and  exposed  his  high, 
rugged  forehead  to  the  air,  and  his  brown  left  hand  gripped  the 
top  of  the  carriage  door.  The  large,  knotted  veins  on  it,  the 
stretched  sinews,  were  very  perceptible.  The  hand  looked 
violent.  Domini's  eyes  fell  on  it  as  she  turned.  The  impulse 
to  speak  began  to  fail,  and  when  she  glanced  up  at  the  man!s 
face  she  no  longer  felt  it  at  all.  For,  despite  the  glory  of  the 
sunset  on  him,  there  seemed  to  be  a  cold  shadow  in  his  eyes. 
The  faint  lines  near  his  mouth  looked  deeper  than  before,  and 
now  suggested  most  powerfully  the  dreariness,  the  harshness 
of  long-continued  suffering.  The  mouth  itself  was  compressed 
and  grim,  and  the  man's  whole  expression  was  fierce  and 
startling  as  the  expression  of  a  criminal  bracing  himself  to 
endure  inevitable  detection.  So  crude  and  piercing  indeed 
was  this  mask  confronting  her  that  Domini  started  and  was 
inclined  to  shudder.  For  a  minute  the  man's  eyes  held  hers, 
and  she  thought  she  saw  in  them  unfathomable  depths  of 
misery  or  of  wickedness.  She  hardly  knew  which.  Sorrow 
was  like  crime,  and  crime  like  the  sheer  desolation  of  grief 
to  her  just  then.  And  she  thought  of  the  outer  darkness 
spoken  of  in  the  Bible.  It  came  before  her  in  the  sunset. 
Her  father  was  in  it,  and  this  stranger  stood  by  him.  The 
thing  was  as  vital,  and  fled  as  swiftly  as  a  hallucination  in  a 
madman's  brain. 

Domini  looked  down.  All  the  triumph  died  out  in  her,  all 
the  exquisite  consciousness  of  the  freedom,  the  colour,  the 
bigness  of  life.  For  there  was  a  black  spot  on  the  sun — 
humanity,  God's  mistake  in  the  great  plan  of  Creation.  And 
the  shadow  cast  by  humanity  tempered,  even  surely  conquered, 
the  light.  She  wondered  whether  she  would  always  feel  the 
cold  of  the  sunless  places  in  the  golden  dominion  of  the  sun. 

The  man  had  dropped  his  eyes  too.     His  hand  fell  from 


PRELUDE  29 

the  door  to  his  knee.  'He  did  not  move  till  the  train  ran  into 
Beni-Mora,  and  the  eager  faces  of  countless  Arabs  stared  in 
upon  them  from  the  scorched  field  of  manoeuvres  where  Spahis 
were  exercising  in  the  gathering  twilight. 


CHAPTER   IV; 

HAVING  given  her  luggage  ticket  to  a  porter,  Domini  passed 
out  of  the  station  followed  by  Suzanne,  who  looked  and  walked 
like  an  exhausted  marionette.  Batouch,  who  had  emerged  from 
a  third-class  compartment  before  the  train  stopped,  followed 
them  closely,  and  as  they  reached  the  jostling  crowd  of  Arabs 
which  swarmed  on  the  roadway  he  joined  them  with  the  air  of 
a  proprietor. 

"Which  is  Madame's  hotel?" 

Domini  looked  round. 

"Ah,  Batouch!" 

Suzanne  jumped  as  if  her  string  had  been  sharply  pulled,  and 
cast  a  glance  of  dreary  suspicion  upon  the  poet.  She  looked  at 
his  legs,  then  upwards. 

He  wore  white  socks  which  almost  met  his  pantaloons. 
Scarcely  more  than  an  inch  of  pale  brown  skin  was  visible.  The 
gold  buttons  of  his  jacket  glittered  brightly.  His  blue  robe 
floated  majestically  from  his  broad  shoulders,  and  the  large 
tassel  of  his  fez  fell  coquettishly  towards  his  left  ear,  above 
which  was  set  a  pale  blue  flower  with  a  woolly  green  leaf. 

Suzanne  was  slightly  reassured  by  the  flower  and  the  bright 
buttons.  She  felt  that  they  needed  a  protector  in  this  mob  of 
shouting  brown  and  black  men,  who  clamoured  about  them  like 
savages,  exposing  bare  legs  and  arms,  even  bare  chests,  in  a 
most  barbarous  manner. 

"We  are  going  to  the  Hotel  du  Desert,"  Domini  con' 
tinued.  "Is  it  far?" 

"  Only  a  few  minutes,  Madame." 

"  I  shall  like  to  walk  there." 

Suzanne  collapsed.  Her  bones  became  as  wax  with  appre- 
hension. She  saw  herself  toiling  over  leagues  of  sand  towards 
some  nameless  hovel. 

"  Suzanne,  you  can  get  into  the  omnibus  and  take  the  hand- 
bags." 

At  the  sweet  word  omnibus  a  ray  of  hope  stole  into  the 
maid's  heart,  and  when  a  nicely-dressed  man,  in  a  long  blue 


3o  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

coat  and  indubitable  trousers,  assisted  her  politely  into  a  vehicle 
which  was  unmistakable  she  almost  wept  for  joy. 

Meanwhile  Domini,  escorted  serenely  by  the  poet,  walked 
towards  the  long  gardens  of  Beni-Mora.  She  passed  over  a 
wooden  bridge.  White  dust  was  flying  from  the  road,  along 
which  many  of  the  Arab  aristocracy  were  indolently  strolling, 
carrying  lightly  in  their  hands  small  red  roses  or  sprigs  of  pink 
geranium.  In  their  white  robes  they  looked,  she  thought,  like 
monks,  though  the  cigarettes  many  of  them  were  smoking  fought 
against  the  illusion.  Some  of  them  were  dressed  like  Batouch 
in  pale-coloured  cloth.  They  held  each  other's  hands  loosely  as 
they  sauntered  along,  chattering  in  soft  contralto  voices.  Two 
or  three  were  attended  by  servants,  who  walked  a  pace  or  two 
behind  them  on  the  left.  These  were  members  of  great  families, 
rulers  of  tribes,  men  who  had  influence  over  the  Sahara  people. 
One,  a  shortish  man  with  a  coal-black  beard,  moved  so  majestic- 
ally that  he  seemed  almost  a  giant.  His  face  was  very  pale. 
On  one  of  his  small,  almost  white,  hands  glittered  a  diamond 
ring.  A  boy  with  a  long,  hooked  nose  strolled  gravely  near 
him,  wearing  brown  kid  gloves  and  a  turban  spangled  with 
gold. 

"  That  is  the  Kai'd  of  Tonga,  Madame,"  whispered  Batouch, 
looking  at  the  pale  man  reverently.  "  He  is  here  en  permis- 
sion/' 

"  How  white  he  is." 

"  They  tried  to  poison  him.  Ever  since  he  is  ill  inside. 
That  is  his  brother.  The  brown  gloves  are  very  chic." 

A  light  carriage  rolled  rapidly  by  them  in  a  white  mist  of 
dust.  It  was  drawn  by  a  pair  of  white  mules,  who  whisked 
their  long  tails  as  they  trotted  briskly,  urged  on  by  a  cracking 
whip.  A  big  boy  with  heavy  brown  eyes  was  the  coachman. 
By  his  side  sat  a  very  tall  young  negro  with  a  humorous  pointed 
nose,  dressed  in  primrose  yellow.  He  grinned  at  Batouch  out 
of  the  mist,  which  accentuated  the  coal-black  hue  of  his  whim- 
sical, happy  face. 

"  That  is  the  Agha's  son  with  Mabrouk." 

They  turned  aside  from  the  road  and  came  into  a  long 
tunnel  formed  by  mimosa  trees  that  met  above  a  broad  path. 
To  right  and  left  were  other  little  paths  branching  among  the 
trunks  of  fruit  trees  and  the  narrow  twigs  of  many  bushes  that 
grew  luxuriantly.  Between  sandy  brown  banks,  carefully 
flattened  and  beaten  hard  by  the  spades  of  Arab  gardeners, 
glided  streams  of  opaque  water  that  were  guided  from  the 


PRELUDE  31 

desert  by  a  system  of  dams.  The  Kaid's  mill  watched  over 
them  and  the  great  wall  of  the  fort.  In  the  tunnel  the  light 
was  very  delicate  and  tinged  with  green.  The  noise  of  the 
water  flowing  was  just  audible.  A  few  Arabs  were  sitting  on 
benches  in  dreamy  attitudes,  with  their  heelless  slippers  hanging 
from  the  toes  of  their  bare  feet.  Beyond  the  entrance  of  the 
tunnel  Domini  could  see  two  horsemen  galloping  at  a  tremen- 
dous pace  into  the  desert.  Their  red  cloaks  streamed  out  over 
the  sloping  quarters  of  their  horses,  which  devoured  the  earth 
as  if  in  a  frenzy  of  emulation.  They  disappeared  into  the  last 
glories  of  the  sun,  which  still  lingered  on  the  plain  and  blazed 
among  the  summits  of  the  red  mountains. 

All  the  contrasts  of  this  land  were  exquisite  to  Domini  and, 
in  some  mysterious  way,  suggested  eternal  things;  whispering 
through  colour,  gleam,  and  shadow,  through  the  pattern  of  leaf 
and  rock,  through  the  air,  now  fresh,  now  tenderly  warm  and 
perfumed,  through  the  silence  that  hung  like  a  filmy  cloud  in 
the  golden  heaven. 

She  and  Batouch  entered  the  tunnel,  passing  at  once  into 
definite  evening.  The  quiet  of  these  gardens  was  delicious,  and 
was  only  interrupted  now  and  then  by  the  sound  of  wheels  upon 
the  road  as  a  carriage  rolled  by  to  some  house  which  was  hidden 
in  the  distance  of  the  oasis.  The  seated  Arabs  scarcely  dis- 
turbed it  by  their  murmured  talk.  Many  of  them  indeed  said 
nothing,  but  rested  like  lotus-eaters  in  graceful  attitudes,  with 
hanging  hands,  and  eyes,  soft  as  the  eyes  of  gazelles,  that 
regarded  the  shadowy  paths  and  creeping  waters  with  a  grave 
serenity  born  of  the  inmost  spirit  of  idleness. 

But  Batouch  loved  to  talk,  and  soon  began  a  languid  mono- 
logue. 

He  told  Domini  that  he  had  been  in  Paris,  where  he  had 
been  the  guest  of  a  French  poet  who  adored  the  East;  that  he 
himself  was  "instructed,"  and  not  like  other  Arabs;  that  he 
smoked  the  hashish  and  could  sing  the  love  songs  of  the  Sahara ; 
that  he  had  travelled  far  in  the  desert,  to  Souf  and  to  Ouargla 
beyond  the  ramparts  of  the  Dunes ;  that  he  composed  verses  in 
the  night  when  the  uninstructed,  the  brawlers,  the  drinkers  of 
absinthe  and  the  domino  players  were  sleeping  or  wasting  their 
time  in  the  darkness  over  the  pastimes  of  the  lewd,  when  the 
sybarites  were  sweating  under  the  smoky  arches  of  the  Moorish 
baths,  and  the  marechale  of  the  dancing-girls  sat  in  her  flat- 
roofed  house  guarding  the  jewels  and  the  amulets  of  her  gay 
confederation.  These  verses  were  written  both  in  Arabic  and 


32  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

in  French,  and  the  poet  of  Paris  and  his  friends  had  found  them 
beautiful  as  the  dawn,  and  as  the  palm  trees  of  Ourlana  by  the 
Artesian  wells.  All  the  girls  of  the  Ouled  Nails  were  cele- 
brated in  these  poems — Aishoush  and  Irena,  Fatma  and  Baal'i. 
In  them  also  were  enshrined  legends  of  the  venerable  marabouts 
who  slept  in  the  Paradise  of  Allah,  and  tales  of  the  great  war- 
riors who  had  fought  above  the  rocky  precipices  of  Constantine 
and  far  off  among  the  sands  of  the  South.  They  told  the  stories 
of  the  Koulouglis,  whose  mothers  were  Moorish  slaves,  and 
romances  in  which  figured  the  dark-skinned  Beni  M'Zab  and 
the  freed  negroes  who  had  fled  away  from  the  lands  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  sun. 

All  this  information,  not  wholly  devoid  of  a  naive  egoism, 
Batouch  poured  forth  gently  and  melodiously  as  they  walked 
through  the  twilight  in  the  tunnel.  And  Domini  was  quite 
content  to  listen.  The  strange  names  the  poet  mentioned,  his 
liquid  pronunciation  of  them,  his  allusions  to  wild  events  that 
had  happened  long  ago  in  desert  places,  and  to  the  lives  of  priests 
of  his  old  religion,  of  fanatics,  and  girls  who  rode  on  camels 
caparisoned  in  red  to  the  dancing-houses  of  Sahara  cities — all 
these  things  cradled  her  humour  at  this  moment  and  seemed  to 
plant  her,  like  a  mimosa  tree,  deep  down  in  this  sand  garden  of 
the  sun. 

She  had  forgotten  her  bitter  sensation  in  the  railway  carriage 
when  it  was  recalled  to  her  mind  by  an  incident  that  clashed 
with  her  present  mood. 

Steps  sounded  on  the  path  behind  them,  going  faster  than 
they  were,  and  presently  Domini  saw  her  fellow-traveller  strid- 
ing along,  accompanied  by  a  young  Arab  who  was  carrying  the 
green  bag.  The  stranger  was  looking  straight  before  him 
down  the  tunnel,  and  he  went  by  swiftly.  But  his  guide  had 
something  to  say  to  Batouch,  and  altered  his  pace  to  keep  beside 
them  for  a  moment.  He  was  a  very  thin,  lithe,  skittish-looking 
youth,  apparently  about  twenty-three  years  old,  with  a  choco- 
late-brown skin,  high  cheek  bones,  long,  almond-shaped  eyes 
twinkling  with  dissipated  humour,  and  a  large  mouth  that 
smiled  showing  pointed  white  teeth.  A  straggling  black  mous- 
tache sprouted  on  his  upper  lip,  and  long  coarse  strands  of  jet- 
black  hair  escaped  from  under  the  front  of  a  fez  that  was 
pushed  back  on  his  small  head.  His  neck  was  thin  and  long, 
and  his  hands  were  wonderfully  delicate  and  expressive,  with 
rosy  and  quite  perfect  nails.  When  he  laughed  he  had  a  habit 
of  throwing  his  head  forward  and  tucking  in  his  chin,  letting 


PRELUDE  33 

the  tassel  of  his  fez  fall  over  his  temple  to  left  or  right.  He 
was  dressed  in  white  with  a  burnous,  and  had  a  many-coloured 
piece  of  silk  with  frayed  edges  wound  about  his  waist,  which 
was  as  slim  as  a  young  girl's. 

He  spoke  to  Batouch  with  intense  vivacity  in  Arabic,  at  the 
same  time  shooting  glances  half-obsequious,  half-impudent, 
wholly  and  even  preternaturally  keen  and  intelligent  at  Domini. 
Batouch  replied  with  the  dignified  languor  that  seemed  peculiar 
to  him.  The  colloquy  continued  for  two  or  three  minutes. 
Domini  thought  it  sounded  like  a  quarrel,  but  she  was  not 
accustomed  to  Arabs'  talk.  Meanwhile,  the  stranger  in  front 
had  slackened  his  pace,  and  was  obviously  lingering  for  his 
neglectful  guide.  Once  or  twice  he  nearly  stopped,  and  made  a 
movement  as  if. to  turn  round.  But  he  checked  it  and  went 
on  slowly.  His  guide  spoke  more  and  more  vehemently,  and 
suddenly,  tucking  in  his  chin  and  displaying  his  rows  of  big  and 
dazzling  teeth,  burst  into  a  gay  and  boyish  laugh,  at  the  same 
time  shaking  his  head  rapidly.  Then  he  shot  one  last  sly  look 
at  Domini  and  hurried  on,  airily  swinging  the  green  bag  to 
and  fro.  His  arms  had  tiny  bones,  but  they  were  evidently 
strong,  and  he  walked  with  the  light  ease  of  a  young  animal. 
After  he  had  gone  he  turned  his  head  once  and  stared  full  at 
Domini.  She  could  not  help  laughing  at  the  vanity  and  con- 
sciousness of  his  expression.  It  was  childish.  Yet  there  was 
something  ruthless  and  wicked  in  it  too.  As  he  came  up  to 
the  stranger  the  latter  looked  round,  said  something  to  him, 
and  then  hastened  forward.  Domini  was  struck  by  the  dif- 
ference between  their  gaits.  For  the  stranger,  although  he 
was  so  strongly  built  and  muscular,  walked  rather  heavily  and 
awkwardly,  with  a  peculiar  shuffling  motion  of  his  feet.  She 
began  to  wonder  how  old  he  was.  About  thirty-five  or  thirty- 
seven,  she  thought. 

"  That  is  Hadj,"  said  Batouch  in  his  soft,  rich  voice. 

"Hadj?" 

"  Yes.  He  is  my  cousin.  He  lives  in  Beni-Mora,  but  he, 
too,  has  been  in  Paris.  He  has  been  in  prison  too." 

"What  for?" 

"  Stabbing." 

Batouch  gave  this  piece  of  information  with  quiet  indiffer- 
ence, and  continued: 

"  He  likes  to  laugh.  He  is  lazy.  He  has  earned  a  great 
deal  of  money,  and  now  he  has  none.  To-night  he  is  very  gay, 
because  he  has  a  client," 


34  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  I  see.    Then  he  is  a  guide  ?  " 

"  Many  people  in  Beni-Mora  are  guides.  But  Hadj  is 
always  lucky  in  getting  the  English." 

"  That  man  with  him  isn't  English !  "  Domini  exclaimed. 

She  had  wondered  what  the  traveller's  nationality  was,  but 
it  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  it  might  be  the  same  as  her 
own. 

"  Yes,  he  is.  And  he  is  going  to  the  Hotel  du  Desert.  You 
and  he  are  the  only  English  here,  and  almost  the  only  travellers. 
It  is  too  early  for  many  travellers  yet.  They  fear  the  heat. 
And  besides,  few  English  come  here  now.  What  a  pity !  They 
spend  money,  and  like  to  see  everything.  Hadj  is  very  anxious 
to  buy  a  costume  at  Tunis  for  the  great  fete  at  the  end  of 
Ramadan.  It  will  cost  fifty  or  sixty  francs.  He  hopes  the 
Englishman  is  rich.  But  all  the  English  are  rich  and  generous." 

Here  Batouch  looked  steadily  at  Domini  with  his  large, 
unconcerned  eyes. 

"  This  one  speaks  Arabic  a  little." 

Domini  made  no  reply.  She  was  surprised  by  this  piece  of 
information.  There  was  something,  she  thought,  essentially 
un-English  about  the  stranger.  He  was  certainly  not  dressed 
by  an  English  tailor.  But  it  was  not  only  that  which  had 
caused  her  mistake.  His  whole  air  and  look,  his  manner  of 
holding  himself,  of  sitting,  of  walking — yes,  especially  of  walk- 
ing— were  surely  foreign.  Yet,  when  she  came  to  think  about 
it,  she  could  not  say  that  they  were  characteristic  of  any  other 
country.  Idly  she  had  said  to  herself  that  the  stranger  might 
be  an  Austrian  or  a  Russian.  But  she  had  been  thinking  of  his 
colouring.  It  happened  that  two  attaches  of  those  two  nations, 
whom  she  had  met  frequently  in  London,  had  hair  of  that 
shade  of  rather  warm  brown. 

"  He  does  not  look  like  an  Englishman,"  she  said  pres- 
ently. 

"  He  can  talk  in  French  and  in  Arabic,  but  Hadj  says  he  is 
English." 

"How  should  Hadj  know?" 

"  Because  he  has  the  eyes  of  the  jackal,  and  has  been  with 
many  English.  We  are  getting  near  to  the  Catholic  church, 
Madame.  You  will  see  it  through  the  trees.  And  there  is 
Monsieur  the  Cure  coming  towards  us.  He  is  coming  from  his 
house,  which  is  near  the  hotel." 

At  some  distance  in  the  twilight  of  the  tunnel  Domini  saw  a 
black  figure  in  a  soutane  walking  very  slowly  towards  them, 


PRELUDE  35 

The  stranger,  who  had  been  covering  the  ground  rapidly  with 
his  curious,  shuffling  stride,  was  much  nearer  to  it  than  they 
were,  and,  if  he  kept  on  at  his  present  pace,  would  soon  pass 
it.  But  suddenly  Domini  saw  him  pause  and  hesitate.  He 
bent  down  and  seemed  to  be  doing  something  to  his  boot. 
Hadj  .dropped  the  green  bag,  and  was  evidently  about  to  kneel 
down  and  assist  him  when  he  lifted  himself  up  abruptly,  looked 
before  him  as  if  at  the  priest  who  was  approaching,  then  turned 
sharply  to  the  right  into  a  path  which  led  out  of  the  garden  to 
the  arcades  of  the  Rue  Berthe.  Hadj  followed,  gesticulating 
frantically,  and  volubly  explaining  that  the  hotel  was  in  the 
opposite  direction.  But  the  stranger  did  not  stop.  He  only 
glanced  swiftly  back  over  his  shoulder  once,  and  then  continued 
on  his  way. 

"What  a  funny  man  that  is!  "  said  Batouch.  "What  does 
he  want  to  do  ?  " 

Domini  did  not  answer  him,  for  the  priest  was  just  passing 
them,  and  she  saw  the  church  to  the  left  among  the  trees.  It 
was  a  plain,  unpretending  building,  with  a  white  wooden  door 
set  in  an  arch.  Above  the  arch  were  a  small  cross,  two  windows 
with  rounded  tops,  a  clock,  and  a  white  tower  with  a  pink  roof. 
She  looked  at  it,  and  at  the  priest,  whose  face  was  dark  and 
meditative,  with  lustrous,  but  sad,  brown  eyes.  Yet  she 
thought  of  the  stranger. 

Her  attention  was  beginning  to  be  strongly  fixed  upon  this 
unknown  man.  His  appearance  and  manner  were  so  unusual 
that  it  was  impossible  not  to  notice  him. 

"  There  is  the  hotel,  Madame !  "  said  Batouch. 

Domini  saw  it  standing  at  right  angles  to  the  church,  facing 
the  gardens.  A  little  way  back  from  the  church  was  the  priest's 
house,  a  white  building  shaded  by  date  palms  and  pepper  trees. 
As  they  drew  near  the  stranger  reappeared  under  the  arcade, 
above  which  was  the  terrace  of  the  hotel.  He  vanished  through 
the  big  doorway,  followed  by  Hadj. 

While  Suzanne  was  unpacking  Domini  came  out  on  to  the 
broad  terrace  which  ran  along  the  whole  length  of  the  Hotel  du 
Desert.  Her  bedroom  opened  on  to  it  in  front,  and  at  the 
back  communicated  with  a  small  salon.  This  salon  opened  on 
to  a  second  and  smaller  terrace,  from  which  the  desert  could  be 
seen  beyond  the  palms.  There  seemed  to  be  no  guests  in  the 
hotel.  The  verandah  was  deserted,  and  the  peace  of  the  soft 
evening  was  profound.  Against  the  white  parapet  a  small, 
round  table  and  a  cane  arm-chair  had  been  placed.  A  sub- 


36  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

dued  patter  of  feet  in  slippers  came  up  the  stairway,  and  an 
Arab  servant  appeared  with  a  tea-tray.  He  put  it  down  on 
the  table  with  the  precise  deftness  which  Domini  had  already 
observed  in  the  Arabs  at  Robertville,  and  swiftly  vanished. 
She  sat  down  in  the  chair  and  poured  out  the  tea,  leaning  her 
left  arm  on  the  parapet. 

Her  head  was  very  tired  and  her  temples  felt  compressed. 
She  was  thankful  for  the  quiet  round  her.  Any  harsh  voice 
would  have  been  intolerable  to  her  just  then.  There  were  many 
sounds  in  the  village,  but  they  were  vague,  and  mingled,  flowing 
together  and  composing  one  sound  that  was  soothing,  the 
restrained  and  level  voice  of  Life.  It  hummed  in  Domini's  ears 
as  she  sipped  her  tea,  and  gave  an  under-side  of  romance  to  the 
peace.  The  light  that  floated  in  under  the  round  arches  of  the 
terrace  was  subdued.  The  sun  had  just  gone  down,  and  the 
bright  colours  bloomed  no  more  upon  the  mountains,  which 
looked  like  silent  monsters  that  had  lost  the  hue  of  youth  and 
had  suddenly  become  mysteriously  old.  The  evening  star  shone 
in  a  sky  that  still  held  on  its  Western  border  some  last  pale 
glimmerings  of  day,  and,  at  its  signal,  many  dusky  wanderers 
folded  their  loose  garments  round  them,  slung  their  long  guns 
across  their  shoulders,  and  prepared  to  start  on  their  journey, 
helped  by  the  cool  night  wind  that  blows  in  the  desert  when  the 
sun  departs. 

Domini  did  not  know  of  them,  but  she  felt  the  near  presence 
of  the  desert,  and  the  feeling  quieted  her  nerves.  She  was 
thankful  at  this  moment  that  she  was  travelling  without  any 
woman  friend  and  was  not  persecuted  by  any  sense  of  obliga- 
tion. In  her  fatigue,  to  rest  passive  in  the  midst  of  quiet,  and 
soft  light,  calm  in  the  belief,  almost  the  certainty,  that  this 
desert  village  contained  no  acquaintance  to  disturb  her,  was  to 
know  all  the  joy  she  needed  for  the  moment.  She  drank  it  in 
dreamily.  Liberty  had  always  been  her  fetish.  What  woman 
had  more  liberty  than  she  had,  here  on  this  lonely  verandah, 
with  the  shadowy  trees  below? 

The  bell  of  the  church  near  by  chimed  softly,  and  the 
familiar  sound  fell  strangely  upon  Domini's  ears  out  here  in 
Africa,  reminding  her  of  many  sorrows.  Her  religion  was 
linked  with  terrible  memories,  with  cruel  struggles,  with  hateful 
scenes  of  violence.  Lord  Rens  had  been  a  man  of  passionate 
temperament.  Strong  in  goodness  when  he  had  been  led  by 
love,  he  had  been  equally  strong  in  evil  when  hate  had  led  him. 
Domini  had  been  forced  to  contemplate  at  close  quarters  the 


PRELUDE  37 

raw  character  of  a  warped  man,  from  whom  circumstance  had 
stripped  all  tenderness,  nearly  all  reticence.  The  terror  of 
truth  was  known  to  her.  She  had  shuddered  before  it,  but 
she  had  been  obliged  to  watch  it  during  many  years.  In 
coming  to  Beni-Mora  she  had  had  a  sort  of  vague,  and  almost 
childish,  feeling  that  she  was  putting  the  broad  sea  between  her- 
self and  it.  Yet  before  she  had  started  it  had  been  buried  in 
the  grave.  She  never  wished  to  behold  such  truth  again.  She 
wanted  to  look  upon  some  other  truth  of  life — the  truth  of 
beauty,  of  calm,  of  freedom.  Lord  Rens  had  always  been  a 
slave,  the  slave  of  love,  most  of  all  when  he  was  filled  with 
hatred,  and  Domini,  influenced  by  his  example,  instinctively 
connected  love  with  a  chain.  Only  the  love  a  human  being 
has  for  God  seemed  to  her  sometimes  the  finest  freedom;  the 
movement  of  the  soul  upward  into  the  infinite  obedient  to  the 
call  of  the  great  Liberator.  The  love  of  man  for  woman, 
of  woman  for  man,  she  thought  of  as  imprisonment,  bondage. 
Was  not  her  mother  a  slave  to  the  man  who  had  wrecked  her 
life  and  carried  her  spirit  beyond  the  chance  of  heaven?  Was 
not  her  father  a  slave  to  her  mother?  She  shrank  definitely 
from  the  contemplation  of  herself  loving,  with  all  the  strength 
she  suspected  in  her  heart,  a  human  being.  In  her  religion  only 
she  had  felt  in  rare  moments  something  of  love.  And  now 
here,  in  this  tremendous  and  conquering  land,  she  felt  a  divine 
stirring  in  her  love  for  Nature.  For  that  afternoon  Nature,  so 
often  calm  and  meditative,  or  gently  indifferent,  as  one  too 
complete  to  be  aware  of  those  who  lack  completeness,  had 
impetuously  summoned  her  to  worship,  had  ardently  appealed 
to  her  for  something  more  than  a  temperate  watchfulness  or  a 
sober  admiration.  There  had  been  a  most  definite  demand 
made  upon  her.  Even  in  her  fatigue  and  in  this  dreamy  twilight 
she  was  conscious  of  a  latent  excitement  that  was  not  lulled  to 
sleep. 

And  as  she  sat  there,  while  the  darkness  grew  in  the  sky 
and  spread  secretly  along  the  sandy  rills  among  the  trees,  she 
wondered  how  much  she  held  within  her  to  give  in  answer  to 
this  cry  to  her  of  self-confident  Nature.  Was  it  only  a  little? 
She  did  not  know.  Perhaps  she  was  too  tired  to  know.  But 
however  much  it  was  it  must  seem  meagre.  What  is  even  a 
woman's  heart  given  to  the  desert  or  a  woman's  soul  to  the 
sea?  What  is  the  worship  of  anyone  to  the  sunset  among  the 
hills,  or  to  the  wind  that  lifts  all  the  clouds  from  before  the 
face  of  the  moon? 


38  THE   GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

A  chill  stole  over  Domini.  She  felt  like  a  very  poor  woman, 
who  can  never  know  the  joy  of  giving,  because  she  does  not 
possess  even  a  mite. 

The  church  bell  chimed  again  among  the  palms.  Domini 
heard  voices  quite  clearly  below  her  under  the  arcade.  A 
French  cafe  was  installed  there,  and  two  or  three  soldiers  were 
taking  their  aperitif  before  dinner  out  in  the  air.  They  were 
talking  of  France,  as  people  in  exile  talk  of  their  country,  with 
the  deliberateness  that  would  conceal  regret  and  the  child's 
instinctive  affection  for  the  mother.  Their  voices  made 
Domini  think  again  of  the  recruits,  and  then,  because  of  them, 
of  Notre  Dame  de  la  Garde,  the  mother  of  God,  looking 
towards  Africa.  She  remembered  the  tragedy  of  her  last  con- 
fession. Would  she  be  able  to  confess  here  to  the  Father  whom 
she  had  seen  strolling  in  the  tunnel?  Would  she  learn  to 
know  here  what  she  really  was? 

How  warm  it  was  in  the  night,  and  how  warmth,  as  it 
develops  the  fecundity  of  the  earth,  develops  also  the  possibili- 
ties in  many  men  and  women.  Despite  her  lassitude  of  body, 
which  kept  her  motionless  as  an  idol  in  her  chair,  with  her 
arm  lying  along  the  parapet  of  the  verandah,  Domini  felt  as 
if  a  confused  crowd  of  things  indefinable,  but  violent,  was 
already  stirring  within  her  nature,  as  if  this  new  climate  was 
calling  armed  men  into  being.  Could  she  not  hear  the  murmur 
of  their  voices,  the  distant  clashing  of  their  weapons? 

Without  being  aware  of  it  she  was  dropping  into  sleep.  The 
sound  of  a  footstep  on  the  wooden  floor  of  the  verandah  recalled 
her.  It  was  at  some  distance  behind  her.  It  crossed  the 
verandah  and  stopped.  She  felt  quite  certain  that  it  was  the 
step  of  her  fellow-traveller,  not  because  she  knew  he  was  staying 
in  the  hotel,  but  rather  because  of  the  curious,  uneven  heaviness 
of  the  tread. 

What  was  he  doing?  Looking  over  the  parapet  into  the 
fruit  gardens,  where  the  white  figures  of  the  Arabs  were  flitting 
through  the  trees? 

He  was  perfectly  silent.  Domini  was  now  wide  awake.  The 
feeling  of  calm  serenity  had  left  her.  She  was  nervously 
troubled  by  this  presence  near  her,  and  swiftly  recalled  the  few 
trifling  incidents  of  the  day  which  had  begun  to  delineate  a 
character  for  her.  They  were,  she  found,  all  unpleasant,  all, 
at  least,  faintly  disagreeable.  Yet,  in  sum,  what  was  their 
meaning?  The  sketch  they  traced  was  so  slight,  so  confused, 
that  it  told  little.  The  last  incident  was  the  strangest.  And 


PRELUDE  39 

again  she  saw  the  long  and  luminous  pathway  of  the  tunnel, 
flickering  with  light  and  shade,  carpeted  with  the  pale  reflec- 
tions of  the  leaves  and  narrow  branches  of  the  trees,  the  black 
figure  of  the  priest  far  down  it,  and  the  tall  form  of  the 
stranger  in  an  attitude  of  painful  hesitation.  Each  time  she 
had  seen  him,  apparently  desirous  of  doing  something  definite, 
hesitation  had  overtaken  him.  In  his  indecision  there  was  some- 
thing horrible  to  her,  something  alarming. 

She  wished  he  was  not  standing  behind  her,  and  her  discom- 
fort increased.  She  could  still  hear  the  voices  of  the  soldiers  in 
the  cafe.  Perhaps  he  was  listening  to  them.  They  sounded 
louder. 

The  speakers  were  getting  up  from  their  seats.  There 
was  a  jingling  of  spurs,  a  tramp  of  feet,  and  the  voices  died 
away.  The  church  bell  chimed  again.  As  it  did  so  Domini 
heard  heavy  and  uneven  steps  cross  the  verandah  hurriedly. 
An  instant  later  she  heard  a  window  shut  sharply. 

"  Suzanne !  "  she  called. 

Her  maid  appeared,  yawning,  with  various  parcels  in  her 
hands. 

"  Yes,  Mademoiselle." 

"  I  sha'n't  go  down  to  the  salle-a-manger  to-night.  Tell  them 
to  give  me  some  dinner  in  my  salon" 

"Yes,   Mademoiselle." 

"  You  did  not  see  who  was  on  the  verandah  just  now?  " 

The  maid  looked  surprised. 

"  I  was  in  Mademoiselle's  room." 

"  Yes.     How  near  the  church  is." 

"  Mademoiselle  will  have  no  difficulty  in  getting  to  Mass. 
She  will  not  be  obliged  to  go  among  all  the  Arabs." 

Domini  smiled. 

"  I  have  come  here  to  be  among  the  Arabs,  Suzanne." 

"  The  porter  of  the  omnibus  tells  me  they  are  dirty  and  very 
dangerous.  They  carry  knives,  and  their  clothes  arc  full  of 
fleas." 

"  You  will  feel  quite  differently  about  them  in  the  morning. 
Don't  forget  about  dinner." 

"  I  will  speak  about  it  at  once,  Mademoiselle." 

Suzanne  disappeared,  walking  as  one  who  suspects  an 
ambush. 

After  dinner  Domini  went  again  to  the  verandah.  She  found 
Batouch  there.  He  had  now  folded  a  snow-white  turban  round 
his  head,  and  looked  like  a  young  high  priest  of  some  ornate 


40  THE  GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

religion.  He  suggested  that  Domini  should  come  out  with  him 
to  visit  the  Rue  des  Ouled  Nails  and  see  the  strange  dances  of 
the  Sahara.  But  she  declined. 

"  Not  to-night,  Batouch.  I  must  go  to  bed.  I  haven't  slept 
for  two  nights." 

"  But  I  do  not  sleep,  Madame.  In  the  night  I  compose 
verses.  My  brain  is  alive.  My  heart  is  on  fire." 

"  Yes,  but  I  am  not  a  poet.  Besides,  I  may  be  here  for  a 
long  time.  I  shall  have  many  evenings  to  see  the  dances." 

The  poet  looked  displeased. 

"  The  gentleman  is  going,"  he  said.  "  Hadj  is  at  the  door 
waiting  for  him  now.  But  Hadj  is  afraid  when  he  enters  the 
street  of  the  dancers." 

"Why?" 

"  There  is  a  girl  there  who  wishes  to  kill  him.  Her  name  is 
Aishoush.  She  was  sent  away  from  Beni-Mora  for  six  months, 
but  she  has  come  back,  and  after  all  this  time  she  still  wishes  to 
kill  Hadj." 

"What  has  he  done  to  her?" 

"  He  has  not  loved  her.  Yes,  Hadj  is  afraid,  but  he  will  go 
with  the  gentleman  because  he  must  earn  money  to  buy  a  cos- 
tume for  the  fete  of  Ramadan.  I  also  wish  to  buy  a  new 
costume." 

He  looked  at  Domini  with  a  dignified  plaintiveness.  His 
pose  against  the  pillar  of  the  verandah  was  superb.  Over  his 
blue  cloth  jacket  he  had  thrown  a  thin  white  burnous,  which 
hung  round  him  in  classic  folds.  Domini  could  scarcely  believe 
that  so  magnificent  a  creature  was  touting  for  a  franc.  The 
idea  certainly  did  occur  to  her,  but  she  banished  it.  For  she 
was  a  novice  in  Africa. 

"  I  am  too  tired  to  go  out  to-night,"  she  said  decisively. 

"  Good-night,  Madame.  I  shall  be  here  to-morrow  morning 
at  seven  o'clock.  The  dawn  in  the  garden  of  the  gazelles  is 
like  the  flames  of  Paradise,  and  you  can  see  the  Spahis  galloping 
upon  horses  that  are  beautiful  as " 

"  I  shall  not  get  up  early  to-morrow." 

Batouch  assumed  an  expression  that  was  tragically  submis- 
sive and  turned  to  go.  Just  then  Suzanne  appeared  at  the 
French  window  of  her  bedroom.  She  started  as  she  perceived 
the  poet,  who  walked  slowly  past  her  to  the  staircase,  throwing 
his  burnous  back  from  his  big  shoulders,  and  stood  looking  after 
him.  Her  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  the  section  of  bare  leg 
that  was  visible  above  his  stockings  white  as  the  driven  snow, 


PRELUDE  41 

and  a  faintly  sentimental  expression  mingled  with  their  defiance 
and  alarm. 

Domini  got  up  from  her  chair  and  leaned  over  the  parapet. 
A  streak  of  yellow  light  from  the  doorway  of  the  hotel  lay  upon 
the  white  road  below,  and  in  a  moment  she  saw  two  figures 
come  out  from  beneath  the  verandah  and  pause  there.  Hadj 
was  one,  the  stranger  was  the  other.  The  stranger  struck  a 
match  and  tried  to  light  a  cigar,  but  failed.  He  struck  another 
match,  and  then  another,  but  still  the  cigar  would  not  draw. 
Hadj  looked  at  him  with  mischievous  astonishment. 

"  If  Monsieur  will  permit  me "  he  began. 

But  the  stranger  took  the  cigar  hastily  from  his  mouth  and 
flung  it  away. 

"  I  don't  want  to  smoke,"  Domini  heard  him  say  in  French. 

Then  he  walked  away  with  Hadj  into  the  darkness. 

As  they  disappeared  Domini  heard  a  faint  shrieking  in  the 
distance.  It  was  the  music  of  the  African  hautboy. 

The  night  was  marvellously  dry  and  warm.  The  thickly 
growing  trees  in  the  garden  scarcely  moved.  It  was  very  still 
and  very  dark.  Suzanne,  standing  at  her  window,  looked  like 
a  shadow  in  her  black  dress.  Her  attitude  was  romantic. 
Perhaps  the  subtle  influence  of  this  Sahara  village  was  beginning 
to  steal  even  over  her  obdurate  spirit. 

The  hautboy  went  on  crying.  Its  notes,  though  faint,  were 
sharp  and  piercing.  Once  more  the  church  bell  chimed  among 
the  date  palms,  and  the  two  musics,  with  their  violently  differ- 
ing associations,  clashing  together  smote  upon  Domini's  heart 
with  a  sense  of  trouble,  almost  of  tragedy.  The  pulses  in  her 
temples  throbbed,  and  she  clasped  her  hands  tightly  together. 
That  brief  moment,  in  which  she  heard  the  duet  of  those  two 
voices,  was  one  of  the  most  interesting,  yet  also  one  of  the  most 
painful  she  had  ever  known.  The  church  bell  was  silent  now, 
but  the  hautboy  did  not  cease.  It  was  barbarous  and  provoca- 
tive, shrill  with  a  persistent  triumph. 

Domini  went  to  bed  early,  but  she  could  not  sleep.  Just 
before  midnight  she  heard  someone  walking  up  and  down  on 
the  verandah.  The  step  was  heavy  and  shuffling.  It  came  and 
went,  came  and  went,  without  pause  till  she  was  in  a  fever  of 
uneasiness.  Only  when  two  chimed  from  the  church  did  it 
cease  at  last. 

She  whispered  a  prayer  to  Notre  Dame  de  la  Garde,  The 
Blessed  Virgin,  looking  towards  Africa.  For  the  first  time  she 
felt  the  loneliness  of  her  situation  and  that  she  was  far  away. 


42  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 


CHAPTER  V 

TOWARDS  morning  Domini  slept.  It  was  nearly  eight  o'clock 
when  she  awoke.  The  room  was  full  of  soft  light  which  told  of 
the  sun  outside,  and  she  got  up  at  once,  put  on  a  pair  of  slippers 
and  opened  the  French  window  on  to  the  verandah.  Already 
Beni-Mora  was  bathed  in  golden  beams  and  full  of  gentle 
activities.  A  flock  of  goats  pattered  by  towards  the  edge  of  the 
oasis.  The  Arab  gardeners  were  lazily  sweeping  small  leaves 
from  the  narrow  paths  under  the  mimosa  and  pepper  trees. 
Sojdiers  in  loose  white  suits,  dark  blue  sashes  and  the  fez,  were 
hastening  from  the  Fort  towards  the  market.  A  distant  bugle 
rang  out  and  the  snarl  of  camels  was  audible  from  the  village. 
Domini  stood  on  the  verandah  for  a  moment,  drinking  in  the 
desert  air.  It  made  her  feel  very  pure  and  clean,  as  if  she  had 
just  bathed  in  clear  water.  She  looked  up  at  the  limpid  sky, 
which  seemed  full  of  hope  and  of  the  power  to  grant  blessings, 
and  she  was  glad  that  she  had  come  to  Beni-Mora.  Her  lonely 
sensation  of  the  previous  night  had  gone.  As  she  stood  in  the 
sun  she  was  conscious  that  she  needed  re-creation  and  that  here 
she  might  find  it.  The  radiant  sky,  the  warm  sun  and  the 
freedom  of  the  coming  day  and  of  many  coming  desert  days, 
filled  her  heart  with  an  almost  childish  sensation.  She  felt 
younger  than  she  had  felt  for  years,  and  even  foolishly  innocent, 
like  a  puppy  dog  or  a  kitten.  Her  thick  black  hair,  unbound, 
fell  in  a  veil  round  her  strong,  active  body,  and  she  had  the 
rare  consciousness  that  behind  that  other  more  mysterious  veil 
her  soul  was  to-day  a  less  unfit  companion  for  its  mate  than  it 
had  been  since  her  mother's  sin. 

Cleanliness — what  a  blessed  condition  that  was,  a  condition 
to  breed  bravery.  In  this  early  morning  hour  Beni-Mora  looked 
magically  clean.  Domini  thought  of  the  desperate  dirt  of 
London  mornings,  of  the  sooty  air  brooding  above  black  trees 
and  greasy  pavements.  Surely  it  was  difficult  to  be  clean  of 
soul  there.  Here  it  would  be  easy.  One  would  tune  one's  lyre 
in  accord  with  Nature  and  be  as  a  singing  palm  tree  beside  a 
water-spring.  She  took  up  a  little  vellum-bound  book  which 
she  had  laid  at  night  upon  her  dressing-table.  It  was  Of  the 
Imitation  of  Christ,  and  she  opened  it  at  haphazard  and  glanced 
down  on  a  sunlit  page.  Her  eyes  fell  on  these  words : 

"  Love   watcheth,    and    sleeping,    slumbereth    not.      When 


PRELUDE  43 

weary  it  is  not  tired;  when  straitened  it  is  not  constrained; 
when  frightened  it  is  not  disturbed ;  but  like  a  vivid  flame 
and  a  burning  torch  it  mounteth  upwards  and  securely  pass- 
eth  through  all.  Whosoever  loveth  knoweth  the  cry  of  this 
voice." 

The  sunlight  on  the  page  of  the  little  book  was  like  the  vivid 
flame  and  the  burning  torch  spoken  of  in  it.  Heat,  light,  a 
fierce  vitality.  Domini  had  been  weary  so  long,  weary  of  soul, 
that  she  was  almost  startled  to  find  herself  responding  quickly 
to  the  sacred  passion  on  the  page,  to  the  bright  beam  that  kissed 
it  as  twin  kisses  twin.  She  knelt  down  to  say  her  morning 
prayer,  but  all  she  could  whisper  was: 

"  O,  God,  renew  me.  O,  God,  renew  me.  Give  me  power 
to  feel,  keenly,  fiercely,  even  though  I  suffer.  Let  me  wake. 
Let  me  feel.  Let  me  be  a  living  thing  once  more.  O,  God, 
renew  me,  renew  me!" 

While  she  prayed  she  pressed  her  face  so  hard  against  her 
hands  that  patches  of  red  came  upon  her  cheeks.  And  after- 
wards it  seemed  to  her  as  if  her  first  real,  passionate  prayer  in 
Beni-Mora  had  been  almost  like  a  command  to  God.  Was  not 
such  a  fierce  prayer  perhaps  a  blasphemy? 

She  rose  from  that  prayer  to  the  first  of  her  new  days. 

After  breakfast  she  looked  over  the  edge  of  the  verandah  and 
saw  Batouch  and  Hadj  squatting  together  in  the  shadow  of  the 
trees  below.  They  were  smoking  cigarettes  and  talking  eagerly. 
Their  conversation,  which  was  in  Arabic,  sounded  violent.  The 
accented  words  were  like  blows.  Domini  had  not  looked  over 
the  parapet  for  more  than  a  minute  before  the  two  guides  saw 
her  and  rose  smiling  to  their  feet. 

"  I  am  waiting  to  show  the  village  to  Madame,"  said 
Batouch,  coming  out  softly  into  the  road,  while  Hadj  remained 
under  the  trees,  exposing  his  teeth  in  a  sarcastic  grin,  which 
plainly  enough  conveyed  to  Domini  his  pity  for  her  sad  mistake 
in  not  engaging  him  as  her  attendant. 

Domini  nodded,  went  back  into  her  room  and  put  on  a 
shady  hat.  Suzanne  handed  her  a  large  parasol  lined  with 
green,  and  she  descended  the  stairs  rather  slowly.  She  was  not 
sure  whether  she  wanted  a  companion  in  her  first  walk  about 
Beni-Mora.  There  would  be  more  savour  of  freedom  in  soli- 
tude. Yet  she  had  hardly  the  heart  to  dismiss  Batouch,  with 
all  his  dignity  and  determination.  She  resolved  to  take  him  for 
a  little  while  and  then  to  get  rid  of  him  on  some  pretext. 


44  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

Perhaps  she  would  make  some  purchases  in  the  bazaars  ana 
send  him  to  the  hotel  with  them. 

"  Madame  has  slept  well?"  asked  the  poet  as  she  emerged 
into  the  sun. 

"  Pretty  well,"  she  answered,  nodding  again  to  Hadj,  whose 
grin  became  more  mischievous,  and  opening  her  parasol. 
"Where  are  we  going?  " 

"  Wherever  Madame  wishes.  There  is  the  market,  the  negro 
village,  the  mosque,  the  casino,  the  statue  of  the  Cardinal,  the 
bazaars,  the  garden  of  the  Count  Ferdinand  Anteoni." 

"  A  garden,"  said  Domini.    "  Is  it  a  beautiful  one?  " 

Batouch  was  about  to  burst  into  a  lyric  ecstasy,  but  he 
checked  himself  and  said: 

"  Madame  shall  see  for  herself  and  tell  me  afterwards  if  in 
all  Europe  there  is  one  such  garden." 

"  Oh,  the  English  gardens  are  wonderful,"  she  said,  smiling 
at  his  patriotic  conceit. 

"  No  doubt.  Madame  shall  tell  me,  Madame  shall  tell  me," 
he  repeated  with  imperturbable  confidence. 

"But  first  I  wish  to  go  for  a  moment  into  the  church,"  she 
said.  "  Wait  for  me  here,  Batouch." 

She  crossed  the  road,  passed  the  modest,  one-storied  house 
of  the  priest,  and  came  to  the  church,  'hich  looked  out  on  to 
the  quiet  gardens.  Before  going  up  the  steps  and  in  at  the  door, 
she  paused  for  a  moment.  There  was  something  touching  to 
her,  as  a  Catholic,  in  this  symbol  of  her  faith  set  thus  far  out 
in  the  midst  of  Islamism.  The  cross  was  surely  rather  lonely 
here,  raised  above  the  white-robed  men  to  whom  it  meant 
nothing.  She  was  conscious  that  since  she  had  come  to  this 
land  of  another  creed,  and  of  another  creed  held  with  fanati- 
cism, her  sentiment  for  her  own  religion,  which  in  England  for 
many  years  had  been  but  lukewarm,  had  suddenly  gained  in 
strength.  She  had  an  odd,  almost  manly,  sensation  that  it 
was  her  duty  in  Africa  to  stand  up  for  her  faith,  not  blatantly 
in  words  to  impress  others,  but  perseveringly  in  heart  to  satisfy 
herself.  Sometimes  she  felt  very  protective.  She  felt  pro- 
tective to-day  as  she  looked  at  this  humble  building,  which  she 
likened  to  one  of  the  poor  saints  of  the  Thebaid,  who  dwelt 
afar  in  desert  places,  and  whose  devotions  were  broken  by  the 
night-cries  of  jackals  and  by  the  roar  of  ravenous  beasts.  With 
this  feeling  strong  upon  her  she  pushed  open  the  door  and 
went  in. 

The  interior  was  plain,  even  ugly.    The  walls  were  painted  a 


PRELUDE  45 

hideous  drab.  The  stone  floor  was  covered  with  small,  hard, 
straw-bottomed  chairs  and  narrow  wooden  forms  for  the 
patient  knees  of  worshippers.  In  the  front  were  two  rows  of 
private  chairs,  with  velvet  cushions  of  various  brilliant  hues 
and  velvet-covered  rails.  On  the  left  was  a  high  stone  pulpit. 
The  altar,  beyond  its  mean  black  and  gold  railing,  was  dingy 
and  forlorn.  On  it  there  was  a  tiny  gold  cross  with  a  gold 
statuette  of  Christ  hanging,  surmounted  by  a  canopy  with  four 
pillars,  which  looked  as  if  made  of  some  unwholesome  sweet- 
meat. Long  candles  of  blue  and  gold  and  bouquets  of  dusty 
artificial  flowers  flanked  it.  Behind  it,  in  a  round  niche,  stood 
a  painted  figure  of  Christ  holding  a  book.  The  two  adjacent 
side  chapels  had  domed  roofs  representing  the  firmament. 
Beneath  the  pulpit  stood  a  small  harmonium.  At  the  opposite 
end  of  the  church  was  a  high  gallery  holding  more  chairs. 
The  mean,  featureless  windows  were  filled  with  glass  half 
white,  half  staring  red  dotted  with  yellow  crosses.  Round  the 
walls  were  reliefs  of  the  fourteen  stations  of  the  Cross  in  white 
plaster  on  a  gilt  ground  framed  in  grey  marble.  From  the  roof 
hung  vulgar  glass  chandeliers  with  ropes  tied  with  faded  pink 
ribands.  Several  frightful  plaster  statues  daubed  with  scarlet 
and  chocolate  brown  stood  under  the  windows,  which  were 
protected  with  brown  woollen  curtains.  Close  to  the  entrance 
were  a  receptacle  for  holy  water  in  the  form  of  a  shell,  and  a 
confessional  of  stone  flanked  by  boxes,  one  of  which  bore  the 
words,  "  Graces  obtenues,"  the  other,  "  Demandes,"  and  a 
card  on  which  was  printed,  "  Litanies  en  honneur  de  Saint 
Antoine  de  Padoue." 

There  was  nothing  to  please  the  eye,  nothing  to  appeal  to  the 
senses.  There  was  not  even  the  mystery  which  shrouds  and 
softens,  for  the  sunshine  streamed  in  through  the  white  glass  of 
the  windows,  revealing,  even  emphasising,  as  if  with  deliberate 
cruelty,  the  cheap  finery,  the  tarnished  velvet,  the  crude  colours, 
the  meretricious  gestures  and  poses  of  the  plaster  saints.  Yet  as 
Domini  touched  her  forehead  and  breast  with  holy  water,  and 
knelt  for  a  moment  on  the  stone  floor,  she  was  conscious  that 
this  rather  pitiful  house  of  God  moved  her  to  an  emotion  she 
had  not  felt  in  the  great  and  beautiful  churches  to  which  she 
was  accustomed  in  England  and  on  the  Continent.  Through 
the  windows  she  saw  the  outlines  of  palm  leaves  vibrating  in  the 
breeze;  African  fingers,  feeling,  with  a  sort  of  fluttering  sus- 
picion, if  not  enmity,  round  the  heart  of  this  intruding  religion, 
which  had  wandered  hither  from  some  distant  place,  and 


46  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

stayed,  confronting  the  burning  glance  of  the  desert.  Bold, 
little,  humble  church!  Domini  knew  that  she  would  love  it. 
But  she  did  not  know  then  how  much. 

She  wandered  round  slowly  with  a  grave  face.  Yet  now  and 
then,  as  she  stood  by  one  of  the  plaster  saints,  she  smiled.  They 
were  indeed  strange  offerings  at  the  shrine  of  Him  who  held 
this  Africa  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand,  of  Him  who  had  ordered 
the  pageant  of  the  sun  which  she  had  seen  last  night  among  the 
mountains.  And  presently  she  and  this  little  church  in  which 
she  stood  alone  became  pathetic  in  her  thoughts,  and  even  the 
religion  which  the  one  came  to  profess  in  the  other  pathetic 
too.  For  here,  in  Africa,  she  began  to  realise  the  wideness  of 
the  world,  and  that  many  things  must  surely  seem  to  the  Creator 
what  these  plaster  saints  seemed  just  then  to  her. 

"  Oh,  how  little,  how  little!  "  she  whispered  to  herself.  "  Let 
me  be  bigger !  Oh,  let  me  grow,  and  here,  not  only  hereafter !  " 

The  church  door  creaked.  She  turned  her  head  and  saw  the 
priest  whom  she  had  met  in  the  tunnel  entering.  He  came  up 
to  her  at  once,  saluted  her,  and  said: 

"  I  saw  you  from  my  window,  Madame,  and  thought  I 
would  offer  to  show  you  our  little  church  here.  We  are  very 
proud  of  it." 

Domini  liked  his  voice  and  his  naive  remark.  His  face,  too, 
though  undistinguished,  looked  honest,  kind,  and  pathetic,  but 
with  a  pathos  that  was  unaffected  and  quite  unconscious.  The 
lower  part  of  it  was  hidden  by  a  moustache  and  beard. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  answered.  "  I  have  been  looking  round 
already." 

"You  are  a  Catholic,  Madame?" 

"  Yes." 

The  priest  looked  pleased.  There  was  something  childlike 
in  the  mobility  of  his  face. 

"I  am  glad,"  he  said  simply.  "We  are  not  a  rich  com- 
munity in  Beni-Mora,  but  we  have  been  fortunate  in  bygone 
years.  Our  great  Cardinal,  the  Father  of  Africa,  loved  this 
place  and  cherished  his  children  here." 

"Cardinal  Lavigerie?" 

"  Yes,  Madame.     His  house  is  now  a  native  hospital.     His 
statue  faces  the  beginning  of  the  great  desert  road.     But  we 
remember  him  and  his  spirit  is  still  among  us." 
-,     The  priest's  eyes  lit  up  as  he  spoke.     The  almost  tragic 
expression  of  his  face  changed  to  one  of  enthusiasm. 

"  He  loved  Africa,  I  believe/'  Domini  said. 


PRELUDE  47 

"  His  heart  was  here.  And  what  he  did !  I  was  to  have  been 
one  of  his  freres  armes,  but  my  health  prevented,  and  after- 
wards the  association  was  dissolved." 

The  sad  expression  returned  to  his  face. 

"  There  are  many  temptations  in  such  a  land  and  climate  as 
this,"  he  said.  "And  men  are  weak.  But  there  are  still- the 
White  Fathers  whom  he  founded.  Glorious  men.  They  carry 
the  Cross  into  the  wildest  places  of  the  world.  The  most 
fanatical  Arabs  respect  the  White  Marabouts." 

"  You  wish  you  were  with  them?  " 

"  Yes,  Madame.  But  my  health  only  permits  me  to  be  a 
humble  parish  priest  here.  Not  all  who  desire  to  enter  the  most 
severe  life  can  do  so.  If  it  were  otherwise  I  should  long  since 
have  been  a  monk.  The  Cardinal  himself  showed  me  that  my 
duty  lay  in  other  paths." 

He  pointed  out  to  Domini  one  or  two  things  in  the  church 
which  he  admired  and  thought  worthy;  the  carving  of  the  altar 
rail  into  grapes,  ears  of  corn,  crosses,  anchors;  the  white  em- 
broidered muslin  that  draped  the  tabernacle;  the  statue  of  a 
bishop  in  a  red  and  gold  mitre  holding  a  staff  and  Bible,  and 
another  statue  representing  a  saint  with  a  languid  and  con- 
sumptive expression  stretching  out  a  Bible,  on  the  leaves  of 
which  a  tiny,  smiling  child  was  walking. 

As  they  were  about  to  leave  the  church  he  made  Domini  pause 
in  front  of  a  painting  of  Saint  Bruno  dressed  in  a  white  monkish 
robe,  beneath  which  was  written  in  gilt  letters : 

"  Saint  Bruno  ordonne  a  ses  disciples 
De  renoncer  aux  biens  terrestres 
Pour  acquerir  les  biens  celestes." 

The  disciples  stood  around  the  saint  in  grotesque  attitudes 
of  pious  attention. 

"That,  I  think,  is  very  beautiful,"  he  said.  "Who  could 
look  at  it  without  feeling  that  the  greatest  act  of  man  is  re- 
nunciation ?  " 

His  dark  eyes  flamed.  Just  then  a  faint  soprano  bark  came 
to  them  from  outside  the  church  door,  a  very  discreet  and  even 
humble,  but  at  the  same  time  anxious,  bark.  The  priest's  face 
changed.  The  almost  passionate  asceticism  of  it  was  replaced 
by  a  soft  and  gentle  look. 

"  Bous-Bous  wants  me,"  he  said,  and  he  opened  the  door  for 
Domini  to  pass  out. 

A  small  white  and  yellow  dog,  very  clean  and  well  brushed, 


48  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

was  sitting  on  the  step  in  an  attentive  attitude.  Directly  the 
priest  appeared  it  began  to  wag  its  short  tail  violently  and  to 
run  round  his  feet,  curving  its  body  into  semi-circles.  He  bent 
down  and  patted  it. 

"  My  little  companion,  Madame,"  he  said.  "  He  was  not  with 
me  yesterday,  as  he  was  being  washed." 

Then  he  took  off  his  hat  and  walked  towards  his  house, 
accompanied  by  Bous-Bous,  who  had  suddenly  assumed  an  air  of 
conscious  majesty,  as  of  one  born  to  preside  over  the  fate  of  an 
important  personage. 

Domini  stood  for  a  moment  under  the  palm  trees  looking 
after  them.  There  was  a  steady  shining  in  her  eyes. 

"Madame  is  a  Catholic  too?"  asked  Batouch,  staring 
steadily  at  her. 

Domini  nodded.  She  did  not  want  to  discuss  religion  with 
an  Arab  minor  poet  just  then. 

"  Take  me  to  the  market,"  she  said,  mindful  of  her  secret 
resolve  to  get  rid  of  her  companion  as  soon  as  possible. 

They  set  out  across  the  gardens. 

It  was  a  celestial  day.  All  the  clear,  untempered  light  of  the 
world  seemed  to  have  made  its  home  in  Beni-Mora.  Yet  the 
heat  was  not  excessive,  for  the  glorious  strength  of  the  sun  was" 
robbed  of  its  terror,  its  possible  brutality,  by  the  bright  and 
feathery  dryness  and  coolness  of  the  airs.  She  stepped  out 
briskly.  Her  body  seemed  suddenly  to  become  years  younger, 
full  of  elasticity  and  radiant  strength. 

"  Madame  is  very  strong.     Madame  walks  like  a  Bedouin." 

Batouch's  voice  sounded  seriously  astonished,  and  Domini 
burst  out  laughing. 

"  In  England  there  are  many  strong  women.  But  I  shall 
grow  stronger  here.  I  shall  become  a  real  Arab.  This  air  gives 
me  life." 

They  were  just  reaching  the  road  when  there  was  a  clatter  of 
hoofs,  and  a  Spahi,  mounted  on  a  slim  white  horse,  galloped 
past  at  a  tremendous  pace,  holding  his  reins  high  above  the  red 
peak  of  his  saddle  and  staring  up  at  the  sun.  Domini  looked 
after  him  with  critical  admiration. 

"  YouVe  got  some  good  horses  here,"  she  said  when  the 
Spahi  had  disappeared. 

"  Madame  knows  how  to  ride?  " 

She  laughed  again. 

"  I've  ridden  ever  since  I  was  a  child." 

"  You  can  buy  a  fine  horse  here  for  sixteen  pounds,"  remarked 


PRELUDE  49 

Batouch,  using  the  pronoun  "  tu,"  as  is  the  custom  of  the 
Arabs. 

"  Find  me  a  good  horse,  a  horse  with  spirit,  and  I'll  buy 
him,"  Domini  said.  "I  want  to  go  far  out  in  the  desert,  far 
away  from  everything." 

"  You  must  not  go  alone." 

"Why  not?" 

"  There  are  bandits  in  the  desert." 

"  I'll  take  my  revolver,"  Domini  said  carelessly.  "  But  I 
will  go  alone." 

They  were  in  sight  of  the  market  now,  and  the  hum  of 
voices  came  to  them,  with  nasal  cries,  the  whine  of  praying 
beggars,  and  the  fierce  braying  of  donkeys.  At  the  end  of  the 
small  street  in  which  they  were  Domini  saw  a  wide  open  space, 
in  the  centre  of  which  stood  a  quantity  of  pillars  supporting  a 
peaked  roof.  Round  the  sides  of  the  square  were  arcades  swarm- 
ing with  Arabs,  and  under  the  central  roof  a  mob  of  figures  came 
and  went,  as  flies  go  and  come  on  a  piece  of  meat  flung  out  into 
a  sunny  place. 

"  What  a  quantity  of  people !  Do  they  all  live  in  Beni- 
Mora?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,  they  come  from  all  parts  of  the  desert  to  sell  and  to 
buy.  But  most  of  those  who  sell  are  Mozabites." 

Little  children  in  bright-coloured  rags  came  dancing  round 
Domini,  holding  out  their  copper-coloured  hands,  and  crying 
shrilly,  "'Msec,  M'dame!  'Msec,  M'dame!"  A  deformed 
man,  who  looked  like  a  distorted  beetle,  crept  round  her  feet, 
gazing  up  at  her  with  eyes  that  squinted  horribly,  and  roaring 
in  an  imperative  voice  some  Arab  formula  in  which  the  words 
"  Allah-el-Akbar  "  continually  recurred.  A  tall  negro,  with  a 
long  tuft  of  hair  hanging  from  his  shaven  head,  followed  hard 
upon  her  heels,  rolling  his  bulging  eyes,  in  which  two  yellow 
flames  were  caught,  and  trying  to  engage  her  attention,  though 
with  what  object  she  could  not  imagine.  From  all  directions 
tall  men  with  naked  arms  and  legs,  and  fluttering  white  gar- 
ments, came  slowly  towards  her,  staring  intently  at  her  with 
lustrous  eyes,  whose  expression  seemed  to  denote  rather  a  calm 
and  dignified  appraisement  than  any  vulgar  curiosity.  Boys, 
with  the  whitest  teeth  she  had  ever  beheld,  and  flowers  above 
their  well-shaped,  delicate  ears,  smiled  up  at  her  with  engaging 
impudence.  Her  nostrils  were  filled  with  a  strange  crowd  of 
odours,  which  came  from  humanity  dressed  in  woollen  gar- 
ments, from  fruits  exposed  for  sale  in  rush  panniers,  from  round 


50  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

close  bouquets  of  roses  ringed  with  tight  borders  of  green 
leaves,  from  burning  incense  twigs,  from  raw  meat,  from  amber 
ornaments  and  strong  perfumes  in  glass  phials  figured  with  gold 
— attar  of  rose,  orange  blossom,  geranium  and  white  lilac.  In 
the  shining  heat  of  the  sun  sounds,  scents  and  movements 
mingled,  and  were  almost  painfully  vivid  and  full  of  meaning 
and  animation.  Never  had  a  London  mob  on  some  great  fete 
day  seemed  so  significant  and  personal  to  Domini  as  this  little 
mob  of  desert  people,  come  together  for  the  bartering  of  beasts, 
the  buying  of  burnouses,  weapons,  skins  and  jewels,  grain  for 
their  camels,  charms  for  their  women,  ripe  glistening  dates  for 
the  little  children  at  home  in  the  brown  earth  houses. 

As  she  made  her  way  slowly  through  the  press,  pioneered  by 
Batouch,  who  forced  a  path  with  great  play  of  his  huge  shoulders 
and  mighty  arms,  she  was  surprised  to  find  how  much  at  home 
she  felt  in  the  midst  of  these  fierce  and  uncivilised-looking 
people.  She  had  no  sense  of  shrinking  from  their  contact,  no 
feeling  of  personal  disgust  at  their  touch.  When  her  eyes 
chanced  to  meet  any  of  the  bold,  inquiring  eyes  around  her  she 
was  inclined  to  smile  as  if  in  recognition  of  these  children  of  the 
sun,  who  did  not  seem  to  her  like  strangers,  despite  the  un- 
known language  that  struggled  fiercely  in  their  throats.  Never- 
theless, she  did  not  wish  to  stay  very  long  among  them  now. 
She  was  resolved  to  get  a  full  and  delicately  complete  first 
impression  of  Beni-Mora,  and  to  do  that  she  knew  that  she  must 
detach  herself  from  close  human  contact.  She  desired  the 
mind's  bird's-eye  view — a  height,  a  watch-tower  and  a  little 
solitude.  So,  when  the  eager  Mozabite  merchants  called  to  her 
she  did  not  heed  them,  and  even  the  busy  patter  of  the  informing 
Batouch  fell  upon  rather  listless  ears. 

"  I  sha'n't  stay  here,"  she  said  to  him.  "  But  I'll  buy  some 
perfumes.  Where  can  I  get  them  ?  " 

A  thin  youth,  brooding  above  a  wooden  tray  close  by,  held 
up  in  his  delicate  fingers  a  long  bottle,  sealed  and  furnished  with 
a  tiny  label,  but  Batouch  shook  his  head. 

"  For  perfumes  you  must  go  to  Ahmeda,  under  the  arcade." 

They  crossed  a  sunlit  space  and  stood  before  a  dark  room, 
sunk  lightly  below  the  level  of  the  pathway  in  a  deserted 
corner.  Shadows  congregated  here,  and  in  the  gloom  Domini 
saw  a  bent  white  figure  hunched  against  the  blackened  wall, 
and  heard  an  old  voice  murmuring  like  a  drowsy  bee.  The  per- 
fume-seller was  immersed  in  the  Koran,  his  back  to  the  buy- 
ing world.  Batouch  was  about  to  call  upon  him,  when  Domini 


PRELUDE  51 

checked  the  exclamation  with  a  quick  gesture.  For  the  first 
time  the  mystery  that  coils  like  a  great  black  serpent  in  the  shin- 
ing heart  of  the  East  startled  and  fascinated  her,  a  mystery  in 
which  indifference  and  devotion  mingle.  The  white  figure 
swayed  slowly  to  and  fro,  carrying  the  dull,  humming  voice 
with  it,  and  now  she  seemed  to  hear  a  far-away  fanaticism,  the 
bourdon  of  a  fatalism  which  she  longed  to  understand. 

"Ahmeda!" 

Batouch  shouted.  His  voice  came  like  a  stone  from  a  catapult. 
The  merchant  turned  calmly  and  without  haste,  showing  an 
aquiline  face  covered  with  wrinkles,  tufted  with  white  hairs, 
lit  by  eyes  that  shone  with  the  cruel  expressiveness  of  a  falcon's. 
After  a  short  colloquy  in  Arabic  he  raised  himself  from  his 
haunches,  and  came  to  the  front  of  the  room,  where  there  was 
a  small  wooden  counter.  He  was  smiling  now  with  a  grace  that 
was  almost  feminine. 

"  What  perfume  does  Madame  desire  ?  "  he  said  in  French. 

Domini  gazed  at  him  as  at  a  deep  mystery,  but  with  the 
searching  directness  characteristic  of  her,  a  fearlessness  so  abso- 
lute that  it  embarrassed  many  people. 

"  Please  give  me  something  that  is  of  the  East — not  violets, 
not  lilac." 

"  Amber,"  said  Batouch. 

The  merchant,  still  smiling,  reached  up  to  a  shelf,  showing 
an  arm  like  a  brown  twig,  and  took  down  a  glass  bottle  covered 
with  red  and  green  lines.  He  removed  the  stopper,  made 
Domini  take  off  her  glove,  touched  her  bare  hand  with  the 
stopper,  then  with  his  forefinger  gently  rubbed  the  drop  of  per- 
fume which  had  settled  on  her  skin  till  it  was  slightly  red. 

"  Now,  smell  it,"  he  commanded. 

Domini  obeyed.  The  perfume  was  faintly  medicinal,  but  it 
filled  her  brain  with  exotic  visions.  She  shut  her  eyes.  Yes, 
that  was  a  voice  of  Africa  too.  Oh !  how  far  away  she  was  from 
her  old  life  and  hollow  days.  The  magic  carpet  had  been  spread 
indeed,  and  she  had  been  wafted  into  a  strange  land  where  she 
had  all  to  learn. 

"  Please  give  me  some  of  that,"  she  said. 

The  merchant  poured  the  amber  into  a  phial,  where  it  lay 
like  a  thread  in  the  glass,  weighed  it  in  a  scales  and  demanded 
a  price.  Batouch  began  at  once  to  argue  with  vehemence,  but 
Domini  stopped  him. 

"  Pay  him,"  she  said,  giving  Batouch  her  purse. 

The  perfume-seller  took  the  money  with   dignity,  turned 


52  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

away,  squatted  upon  his  haunches  against  the  blackened  wall, 
and  picked  up  the  broad-leaved  volume  which  lay  upon  the 
floor.  He  swayed  gently  and  rhythmically  to  and  fro.  Then 
once  more  the  voice  of  the  drowsy  bee  hummed  in  the  shadows. 
The  worshipper  and  the  Prophet  stood  before  the  feet  of 
Allah. 

And  the  woman — she  was  set  afar  off,  as  woman  is  by  white- 
robed  men  in  Africa. 

"  Now,  Batouch,  you  can  carry  the  perfume  to  the  hotel  and 
I  will  go  to  that  garden." 

"  Alone?    Madame  will  never  find  it." 

"  I  can  ask  the  way." 

"Impossible!  I  will  escort  Madame  to  the  gate.  There  I 
will  wait  for  her.  Monsieur  the  Count  does  not  permit  the 
Arabs  to  enter  with  strangers." 

"  Very  well,"  Domini  said. 

The  seller  of  perfumes  had  led  her  towards  a  dream.  She 
was  not  combative,  and  she  would  be  alone  in  the  garden.  As 
they  walked  towards  it  in  the  sun,  through  narrow  ways  where 
idle  Arabs  lounged  with  happy  aimlessness,  Batouch  talked  of 
Count  Anteoni,  the  owner  of  the  garden. 

Evidently  the  Count  was  the  great  personage  of  Beni-Mora. 
Batouch  spoke  of  him  with  a  convinced  respect,  describing  him 
as  fabulously  rich,  fabulously  generous  to  the  Arabs. 

"  He  never  gives  to  the  French,  Madame,  but  when  he  is 
here  each  Friday,  upon  our  Sabbath,  he  comes  to  the  gate  with 
a  bag  of  money  in  his  hand,  and  he  gives  five  franc  pieces  to 
every  Arab  who  is  there." 

"And  what  is  he?    French?" 

"  He  is  Italian ;  but  he  is  always  travelling,  and  he  has  made 
gardens  everywhere.  He  has  three  in  Africa  alone,  and  in  one 
he  keeps  many  lions.  When  he  travels  he  takes  six  Arabs  with 
him.  He  loves  only  the  Arabs." 

Domini  began  to  feel  interested  in  this  wandering  maker  of 
gardens,  who  was  a  pilgrim  over  the  world  like  Monte  Cristo. 

"  Is  he  young?  "  she  asked. 

"  No." 

"Married?" 

"  Oh,  no !  He  is  always  alone.  Sometimes  he  comes  here 
and  stays  for  three  months,  and  is  never  once  seen  outside  the 
garden.  And  sometimes  for  a  year  he  never  comes  to  Beni- 
Mora.  But  he  is  here  now.  Twenty  Arabs  are  always  working 
in  the  garden,  and  at  night  ten  Arabs  with  guns  are  always 


PRELUDE  53 

awake,  some  in  a  tent  inside  the  door  and  some  among  the 


trees." 


"  Then  there  is  danger  at  night?  " 

"  The  garden  touches  the  desert,  and  those  who  are  in  the 
desert  without  arms  are  as  birds  in  the  air  without  wings." 

They  had  come  out  from  among  the  houses  now  into  a  broad, 
straight  road,  bordered  on  the  left  by  land  that  was  under  culti- 
vation, by  fruit  trees,  and  farther  away  by  giant  palms,  between 
whose  trunks  could  be  seen  the  stony  reaches  of  the  desert  and 
spurs  of  grey-blue  and  faint  rose-coloured  mountains.  On  the 
right  was  a  shady  garden  with  fountains  and  stone  benches,  and 
beyond  stood  a  huge  white  palace  built  in  the  Moorish  style,  and 
terraced  roofs  and  a  high  tower  ornamented  with  green  and 
peacock-blue  tiles.  In  the  distance,  among  more  palms,  appeared 
a  number  of  low,  flat  huts  of  brown  earth.  The  road,  as  far  as 
the  eyes  could  see,  stretched  straight  forward  through  enormous 
groves  of  palms,  whose  feathery  tops  swayed  gently  in  the  light 
wind  that  blew  from  the  desert.  Upon  all  things  rained  a 
flood  of  blue  and  gold.  A  blinding  radiance  made  all  things 
glad. 

"  How  glorious  light  is!  "  Domini  exclaimed,  as  she  looked 
down  the  road  to  the  point  where  its  whiteness  was  lost  in  the 
moving  ocean  of  the  trees. 

Batouch  assented  without  enthusiasm,  having  always  lived  in 
the  light. 

"  As  we  return  from  the  garden  we  will  visit  the  tower,"  he 
said,  pointing  to  the  Moorish  palace.  "It  is  a  hotel,  and  is  not 
yet  open,  but  I  know  the  guardian.  From  the  tower  Madame 
will  see  the  whole  of  Beni-Mora.  Here  is  the  negro  village.'* 

They  traversed  its  dusty  alleys  slowly.  On  the  side  where 
the  low  brown  dwellings  threw  shadows  some  of  the  inhabitants 
were  dreaming  or  chattering,  wrapped  in  garments  of  gaudy 
cotton.  Little  girls  in  the  fiercest  orange  colour,  with  tattooed 
foreheads  and  leathern  amulets,  darted  to  and  fro,  chasing  each 
other  and  shrieking  with  laughter.  Naked  babies,  whose  shaven 
heads  made  a  warm  resting-place  for  flies,  stared  at  Domini  with 
a  lustrous  vacancy  of  expression.  At  the  corners  of  the  alleys 
unveiled  women  squatted,  grinding  corn  in  primitive  hand-mills, 
or  winding  wool  on  wooden  sticks.  Their  heads  were  covered 
with  plaits  of  imitation  hair  made  of  wool,  in  which  barbaric 
silver  ornaments  were  fastened,  and  their  black  necks  and  arms 
jingled  with  chains  and  bangles  set  with  squares  of  red  coral 
and  large  dull  blue  and  green  stones.  Some  of  them  called 


54  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

boldly  to  Batouch,  and  he  answered  them  with  careless  impu- 
dence. The  palm-wood  door  of  one  of  the  houses  stood  wide 
open,  and  Domini  looked  in.  She  saw  a  dark  space  with  floor 
and  walls  of  earth,  a  ceiling  of  palm  and  brushwood,  a  low 
divan  of  earth  without  mat  or  covering  of  any  kind. 

"  They  have  no  furniture?  "  she  asked  Batouch. 

"  No.  What  do  they  want  with  it  ?  They  live  out  here  in 
the  sun  and  go  in  to  sleep." 

Life  simplified  to  this  extent  made  her  smile.  Yet  she  looked 
at  the  squatting  figures  in  the  gaudy  cotton  rags  with  a  stirring 
of  envy.  The  memory  of  her  long  and  complicated  London 
years,  filled  with  a  multitude  of  so-called  pleasures  which  had 
never  stifled  the  dull  pain  set  up  in  her  heart  by  the  rude  shock 
of  her  mother's  sin  and  its  result,  made  this  naked,  sunny,  bar- 
barous existence  seem  desirable.  She  stood  for  a  moment  to 
watch  two  women  sorting  grain  for  cous-cous.  Their  guttural 
laughter,  their  noisy  talk,  the  quick  and  energetic  movements 
of  their  busy  black  hands,  reminded  her  of  children's  gaiety. 
And  Nature  rose  before  her  in  the  sunshine,  confronting  artifice 
and  the  heavy  languors  of  modern  life  in  cities.  How  had  she 
been  able  to  endure  the  yoke  so  long  ? 

"  Will  Madame  take  me  to  London  with  her  when  she 
returns?"  said  Batouch,  slyly. 

"  I  am  not  going  back  to  London  for  a  very  long  time,"  she 
replied  with  energy. 

"  You  will  stay  here  many  weeks?  " 

"  Months,  perhaps.  And  perhaps  I  shall  travel  on  into  the 
desert.  Yes,  I  must  do  that." 

"  If  we  followed  the  white  road  into  the  desert,  and  went  on 
and  on  for  many  days,  we  should  come  at  last  to  Tombouctou," 
said  Batouch.  "  But  very  likely  we  should  be  killed  by  the 
Touaregs.  They  are  fierce  and  they  hate  strangers." 

"  Would  you  be  afraid  to  go  ?  "  Domini  asked  him,  curiously. 

"Why  afraid?" 

"Of  being  killed?" 

He  looked  calmly  surprised. 

"  Why  should  I  be  afraid  to  die?  All  must  pass  through  that 
door.  It  does  not  matter  whether  it  is  to-day  or  to-morrow." 

"  You  have  no  fear  of  death,  then  ?  " 

"Of  course  not.     Have  you,  Madame?" 

He  gazed  at  Domini  with  genuine  astonishment. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered. 

And  she  wondered  and  could  not  tell. 


PRELUDE  55 

"  There  is  the  Villa  Anteoni." 

Batouch  lifted  his  hand  and  pointed.  They  had  turned  aside 
from  the  way  to  Tombouctou,  left  the  village  behind  them,  and 
come  into  a  narrow  track  which  ran  parallel  to  the  desert.  The 
palm  trees  rustled  on  their  right,  the  green  corn  waved,  the 
narrow  cuttings  in  the  earth  gleamed  with  shallow  water.  But 
on  their  other  side  was  limitless  sterility ;  the  wide,  stony  expanse 
of  the  great  river  bed,  the  Oued-Beni-Mora,  then  a  low  earth 
cliff,  and  then  the  immense  airy  flats  stretching  away  into  the 
shining  regions  of  the  sun.  At  some  distance,  raised  on  a 
dazzling  white  wall  above  the  desert  in  an  unshaded  place, 
Domini  saw  a  narrow,  two-sided  white  house,  with  a  flat  roof 
and  a  few  tiny  loopholes  instead  of  windows.  One  side  looked 
full  upon  the  waterless  river  bed,  the  other,  at  right  angles  to 
it,  ran  back  towards  a  thicket  of  palms  and  ended  in  an  arcade 
of  six  open  Moorish  arches,  through  which  the  fierce  blue  of 
the  cloudless  sky  stared,  making  an  almost  theatrical  effect. 
Beyond,  masses  of  trees  were  visible,  looking  almost  black 
against  the  intense,  blinding  pallor  of  wall,  villa  and  arcade,  the 
intense  blue  above. 

"  What  a  strange  house !  "  Domini  said.  "  There  are  no 
windows." 

"  They  are  all  on  the  other  side,  looking  into  the  garden." 

The  villa  fascinated  Domini  at  once.  The  white  Moorish 
arcade  framing  bare,  quivering  blue,  blue  from  the  inmost  heart 
of  heaven,  intense  as  a  great  vehement  cry,  was  beautiful  as  the 
arcade  of  a  Geni's  home  in  Fairyland.  Mystery  hung  about  this 
dwelling,  a  mystery  of  light,  not  darkness,  secrets  of  flame  and 
hidden  things  of  golden  meaning.  She  felt  almost  like  a  child 
who  is  about  to  penetrate  into  the  red  land  of  the  winter  fire, 
and  she  hastened  her  steps  till  she  reached  a  tall  white  gate  set 
in  an  arch  of  wood,  and  surmounted  with  a  white  coat  of  arms 
and  two  lions.  Batouch  struck  on  it  with  a  white  knocker  and 
then  began  to  roll  a  cigarette. 

"  I  will  wait  here  for  Madame." 

Domini  nodded.  A  leaf  of  wood  was  pulled  back  softly  in 
the  gate,  and  she  stepped  into  the  garden  and  confronted  a 
graceful  young  Arab  dressed  in  pale  green,  who  saluted  her 
respectfully  and  gently  closed  the  door. 

"  May  I  walk  about  the  garden  a  little?"  she  asked. 

She  did  not  look  round  her  yet,  for  the  Arab's  face  interested 
and  even  charmed  her.  It  was  aristocratic,  enchantingly  in- 
dolent, like  the  face  of  a  happy  lotus-eater.  The  great,  lustrous 


56  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

eyes  were  tender  as  a  gazelle's  and  thoughtless  as  the  eyes  of  a 
sleepy  child.  His  perfectly-shaped  feet  were  bare  on  the  shin- 
ing sand.  In  one  hand  he  held  a  large  red  rose  and  in  the 
other  a  half  smoked  cigarette. 

Domini  could  not  help  smiling  at  him  as  she  put  her  question, 
and  he  smiled  contentedly  back  at  her  as  he  answered,  in  a  low, 
level  voice: 

"  You  can  go  where  you  will.    Shall  I  show  you  the  paths?  " 

He  lifted  his  hand  and  calmly  smelt  his  red  rose,  keeping  his 
great  eyes  fixed  upon  her.  Domini's  wish  to  be  alone  had  left 
her.  This  was  surely  the  geni  of  the  garden,  and  his  company 
would  add  to  its  mystery  and  fragrance. 

"  You  need  not  stay  by  the  door?  "  she  asked. 

"  No  one  will  come.  There  is  no  one  in  Beni-Mora.  And 
Hassan  will  stay." 

He  pointed  with  his  rose  to  a  little  tent  that  was  pitched 
closed  to  the  gate  beneath  a  pepper  tree.  In  it  Domini  saw  a 
brown  boy  curled  up  like  a  dog  and  fast  asleep.  She  began  to 
feel  as  if  she  had  eaten  hashish.  The  world  seemed  made  for 
dreaming. 

"  Thank  you,  then." 

And  now  for  the  first  time  she  looked  round  to  see  whether 
Batouch  had  implied  the  truth.  Must  the  European  gardens 
give  way  to  this  Eastern  garden,  take  a  lower  place  with  all 
their  roses? 

She  stood  on  a  great  expanse  of  newly- raked  smooth  sand, 
rising  in  a  very  gentle  slope  to  a  gigantic  hedge  of  carefully 
trimmed  evergreens,  which  projected  at  the  top,  forming  a  roof 
and  casting  a  pleasant  shade  upon  the  sand.  At  intervals  white 
benches  were  placed  under  this  hedge.  To  the  right  was  the 
villa.  She  saw  now  that  it  was  quite  small.  There  were  two 
lines  of  windows — on  the  ground  floor  and  the  upper  story. 
The  lower  windows  opened  on  to  the  sand,  those  above  on  to  a 
verandah  with  a  white  railing,  which  was  gained  by  a  white 
staircase  outside  the  house  built  beneath  the  arches  of  the  arcade. 
The  villa  was  most  delicately  simple,  but  in  this  riot  of  blue 
and  gold  its  ivory  cleanliness,  set  there  upon  the  shining  sand 
which  was  warm  to  the  foot,  made  it  look  magical  to  Domini. 
She  thought  she  had  never  known  before  what  spotless  purity 
was  like. 

"  Those  are  the  bedrooms,"  murmured  the  Arab  at  her  side. 

"There  are  only  bedrooms?"  she  asked  in  surprise. 

"  The  other  rooms,  the    drawing-room    of    Monsieur    the 


PRELUDE  57 

Count,  the  dining-room,  the  smoking-room,  the  Moorish  bath, 
the  room  of  the  little  dog,  the  kitchen  and  the  rooms  for  the 
servants  are  in  different  parts  of  the  garden.  There  is  the 
dining-room." 

He  pointed  with  his  rose  to  a  large  white  building,  whose 
dazzling  walls  showed  here  and  there  through  the  masses  of 
trees  to  the  left,  where  a  little  raised  sand-path  with  flattened, 
sloping  sides  wound  away  into  a  maze  of  shadows  diapered  with 
gold. 

"  Let  us  go  down  that  path,"  Domini  said  almost  in  a 
whisper. 

The  spell  of  the  place  was  descending  upon  her.  This  was 
surely  a  home  of  dreams,  a  haven  where  the  sun  came  to  lie 
down  beneath  the  trees  and  sleep. 

"  What  is  your  name?  "  she  added. 

"  Smai'n,"  replied  the  Arab.  "  I  was  born  in  this  garden. 
My  father,  Mohammed,  was  with  Monsieur  the  Count." 

He  led  the  way  over  the  sand,  moving  silently  on  his  long, 
brown  feet,  straight  as  a  reed  in  a  windless  place.  Domini  fol- 
lowed, holding  her  breath.  Only  sometimes  she  let  her  strong 
imagination  play  utterly  at  its  will.  She  let  it  go  now  as  she 
and  Smain  turned  into  the  golden  diapered  shadows  of  the  little 
path  and  came  into  the  swaying  mystery  of  the  trees.  The 
longing  for  secrecy,  for  remoteness,  for  the  beauty  of  far  away 
had  sometimes  haunted  her,  especially  in  the  troubled  moments 
of  her  life.  Her  heart,  oppressed,  had  overleaped  the  horizon 
line  in  answer  to  a  calling  from  hidden  things  beyond.  Her 
emotions  had  wandered,  seeking  the  great  distances  in  which 
the  dim  purple  twilight  holds  surely  comfort  for  those  who 
suffer.  But  she  had  never  thought  to  find  any  garden  of  peace 
that  realised  her  dreams.  Nevertheless,  she  was  already  con- 
scious that  Sma'in  with  his  rose  was  showing  her  the  way  to  her 
ideal,  that  her  feet  were  set  upon  its  pathway,  that  its  legendary 
trees  were  closing  round  her. 

Behind  the  evergreen  hedge  she  heard  the  liquid  bubbling  of 
a  hidden  waterfall,  and  when  they  had  left  the  untempered  sun- 
light behind  them  this  murmur  grew  louder.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  green  gloom  in  which  they  walked  acted  as  a  sounding- 
board  to  the  delicious  voice.  The  little  path  wound  on  and  on 
between  two  running  rills  of  water,  which  slipped  incessantly 
away  under  the  broad  and  yellow-tipped  leaves  of  dwarf  palms, 
making  a  music  so  faint  that  it  was  more  like  a  remembered 
sound  in  the  mind  than  one  which  slid  upon  the  ear.  On 


58  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

either  hand  towered  a  jungle  of  trees  brought  to  this  home  in  the 
desert  from  all  parts  of  the  world. 

There  were  many  unknown  to  Domini,  but  she  recognised 
several  varieties  of  palms,  acacias,  gums,  fig  trees,  chestnuts, 
poplars,  false  pepper  trees,  the  huge  olive  trees  called  Jamelons, 
white  laurels,  indiarubber  and  cocoanut  trees,  bananas,  bam- 
boos, yuccas,  many  mimosas  and  quantities  of  tall  eucalyptus 
trees.  Thickets  of  scarlet  geranium  flamed  in  the  twilight.  The 
hibiscus  lifted  languidly  its  frail  and  rosy  cup,  and  the  red  gold 
oranges  gleamed  amid  leaves  that  looked  as  if  they  had  been 
polished  by  an  attentive  fairy. 

As  she  went  with  Smai'n  farther  into  the  recesses  of  the  gar- 
den the  voice  of  the  waterfall  died  away.  No  birds  were  sing- 
ing. Domini  thought  that  perhaps  they  dared  not  sing  lest  they 
might  wake  the  sun  from  its  golden  reveries,  but  afterwards, 
when  she  knew  the  garden  better,  she  often  heard  them  twitter- 
ing with  a  subdued,  yet  happy,  languor,  as  if  joining  in  a  nocturn 
upon  the  edge  of  sleep.  Under  the  trees  the  sand  was  yellow, 
of  a  shade  so  voluptuously  beautiful  that  she  longed  to  touch  it 
with  her  bare  feet  like  Smai'n.  Here  and  there  it  rose  in  sym- 
metrical little  pyramids,  which  hinted  at  absent  gardeners,  per- 
haps enjoying  a  siesta. 

Never  before  had  she  fully  understood  the  enchantment  of 
green,  quite  realised  how  happy  a  choice  was  made  on  that  day 
of  Creation  when  it  was  showered  prodigally  over  the  world. 
But  now,  as  she  walked  secretly  over  the  yellow  sand  between 
the  rills,  following  the  floating  green  robe  of  Smam,  she  rested 
her  eyes,  and  her  soul,  on  countless  mingling  shades  of  the 
delicious  colour;  rough,  furry  green  of  geranium  leaves,  silver 
green  of  olives,  black  green  of  distant  palms  from  which  the  sun 
held  aloof,  faded  green  of  the  eucalyptus,  rich,  emerald  green 
of  fan-shaped,  sunlit  palms,  hot,  sultry  green  of  bamboos,  dull, 
drowsy  green  of  mulberry  trees  and  brooding  chestnuts.  It 
was  a  choir  of  colours  in  one  colour,  like  a  choir  of  boys  all 
with  treble  voices  singing  to  the  sun. 

Gold  flickered  everywhere,  weaving  patterns  of  enchantment, 
quivering,  vital  patterns  of  burning  beauty.  Down  the  narrow, 
branching  paths  that  led  to  inner  mysteries  the  light  ran  in  and 
out,  peeping  between  the  divided  leaves  of  plants,  gliding  over 
the  slippery  edges  of  the  palm  branches,  trembling  airily  where 
the  papyrus  bent  its  antique  head,  dancing  among  the  big  blades 
of  sturdy  grass  that  sprouted  in  tufts  here  and  there,  resting 
languidly  upon  the  glistening  magnolias  that  were  besieged  by 


PRELUDE  59 

somnolent  bees.  All  the  greens  and  all  the  golds  of  Creation 
were  surely  met  together  in  this  profound  retreat  to  prove  the 
perfect  harmony  of  earth  with  sun. 

And  now,  growing  accustomed  to  the  pervading  silence, 
Domini  began  to  hear  the  tiny  sounds  that  broke  it.  They  came 
from  the  trees  and  plants.  The  airs  were  always  astir,  helping 
the  soft  designs  of  Nature,  loosening  a  leaf  from  its  stem  and 
bearing  it  to  the  sand,  striking  a  berry  from  its  place  and  causing 
it  to  drop  at  Domini's  feet,  giving  a  faded  geranium  petal  the 
courage  to  leave  its  more  vivid  companions  and  resign  itself  to 
the  loss  of  the  place  it  could  no  longer  fill  with  beauty.  Very 
delicate  was  the  touch  of  the  dying  upon  the  yellow  sand.  It 
increased  the  sense  of  pervading  mystery  and  made  Domini  more 
deeply  conscious  of  the  pulsing  life  of  the  garden. 

"  There  is  the  room  of  the  little  dog,"  said  Smai'n. 

They  had  come  out  into  a  small  open  space,  over  which  an 
immense  cocoanut  tree  presided.  Low  box  hedges  ran  round 
two  squares  of  grass  which  were  shadowed  by  date  palms  heavy 
with  yellow  fruit,  and  beneath  some  leaning  mulberry  trees 
Domini  saw  a  tiny  white  room  with  two  glass  windows  down  to 
the  ground.  She  went  up  to  it  and  peeped  in,  smiling. 

There,  in  a  formal  salon,  with  gilt  chairs,  oval,  polished 
tables,  faded  rugs  and  shining  mirrors,  sat  a  purple  china  dog 
with  his  tail  curled  over  his  back  sternly  staring  into  vacancy. 
His  expression  and  his  attitude  were  autocratic  and  determined, 
betokening  a  tyrannical  nature,  and  Domini  peeped  at  him  with 
precaution,  holding  herself  very  still  lest  he  should  become  aware 
of  her  presence  and  resent  it. 

"  Monsieur  the  Count  paid  much  money  for  the  dog,"  mur- 
mured Smain.  "  He  is  very  valuable." 

"  How  long  has  he  been  there?  " 

"  For  many  years.  He  was  there  when  I  was  born,  and  I 
have  been  married  twice  and  divorced  twice." 

Domini  turned  from  the  window  and  looked  at  Smain 
with  astonishment.  He  was  smelling  his  rose  like  a  dreamy 
child. 

"  You  have  been  divorced  twice?  " 

"  Yes.    Now  I  will  show  Madame  the  smoking-room." 

They  followed  another  of  the  innumerable  alleys  of  the 
garden.  This  one  was  very  narrow  and  less  densely  roofed  with 
trees  than  those  they  had  already  traversed.  Tall  shrubs  bent 
forward  on  either  side  of  it,  and  their  small  leaves  almost  meet- 
ing were  transformed  by  the  radiant  sunbeams  into  tongues  of 


60  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

pale  fire,  quivering,  well  nigh  transparent.  As  she  approached 
them  Domini  could  not  resist  the  fancy  that  they  would  burn 
her.  A  brown  butterfly  flitted  forward  between  them  and 
vanished  into  the  golden  dream  beyond. 

"  Oh,  Smain,  how  you  must  love  this  garden!  "  she  said. 

A  sort  of  ecstasy  was  waking  within  her.  The  pure  air,  the 
caressing  warmth,  the  enchanted  stillness  and  privacy  of  this 
domain  touched  her  soul  and  body  like  the  hands  of  a  saint  with 
power  to  bless  her. 

"  I  could  live  here  for  ever,"  she  added,  "  without  once  wish- 
ing to  out  into  the  world." 

Smai'n  looked  drowsily  pleased. 

"  We  are  coming  to  the  centre  of  the  garden,"  he  said,  as 
they  passed  over  a  palm-wood  bridge  beneath  which  a  stream 
glided  under  the  red  petals  of  geraniums. 

The  tongues  of  flame  were  left  behind.  Green  darkness 
closed  in  upon  them  and  the  sand  beneath  their  feet  looked 
blanched.  The  sense  of  mystery  increased,  for  the  trees  were 
enormous  and  grew  densely  here.  Pine  needles  lay  upon  the 
ground,  and  there  was  a  stirring  of  sudden  wind  far  up  above 
their  heads  in  the  tree-tops. 

"  This  is  the  part  of  the  garden  that  Monsieur  the  Count 
loves,"  said  Smain.  "  He  comes  here  every  day." 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  said  Domini,  suddenly  stopping  on  the 
pale  sand. 

A  thin  and  remote  sound  stole  to  them  down  the  alley,  clear 
and  frail  as  the  note  of  a  night  bird. 

"  It  is  Larbi  playing  upon  the  flute.  He  is  in  love.  That  is 
why  he  plays  when  he  ought  to  be  watering  the  flowers  and 
raking  out  the  sand." 

The  distant  love-song  of  the  flute  seemed  to  Domini  the  last 
touch  of  enchantment  making  this  indeed  a  wonderland.  She 
could  not  move,  and  held  up  her  hands  to  stay  the  feet  of  Smain, 
who  was  quite  content  to  wait.  Never  before  had  she  heard 
any  music  that  seemed  to  mean  and  suggest  so  much  to  her  as 
this  African  tune  played  by  an  enamoured  gardener.  Queer 
and  uncouth  as  it  was,  distorted  with  ornaments  and  tricked 
out  with  abrupt  runs,  exquisitely  unnecessary  grace  notes,  and 
sudden  twitterings  prolonged  till  a  strange  and  frivolous  Eter- 
nity tripped  in  to  banish  Time,  it  grasped  Domini's  fancy  and 
laid  a  spell  upon  her  imagination.  For  it  sounded  as  naively 
sincere  as  the  song  of  a  bird,  and  as  if  the  heart  from  which  it 
flowed  were  like  the  heart  of  a  child,  a  place  of  revelation,  not  of 


PRELUDE  61 

concealment.  The  sun  made  men  careless  here.  They  opened 
their  windows  to  it,  and  one  could  see  into  the  warm  and  glow- 
ing rooms.  Domini  looked  at  the  gentle  Arab  youth  beside 
her,  already  twice  married  and  twice  divorced.  She  listened 
to  Larbi's  unending  song  of  love.  And  she  said  to  herself, 
"  These  people,  uncivilised  or  not,  at  least  live,  and  I  have  been 
dead  all  my  life,  dead  in  life."  That  was  horribly  possible. 
She  knew  it  as  she  felt  the  enormously  powerful  spell  of  Africa 
descending  upon  her,  enveloping  her  quietly  but  irresistibly. 
The  dream  of  this  garden  was  quick  with  a  vague  and  yet  fierce 
stirring  of  realities.  There  was  a  murmuring  of  many  small 
and  distant  voices,  like  the  voices  of  innumerable  tiny  things 
following  restless  activities  in  a  deep  forest.  As  she  stood  there 
the  last  grain  of  European  dust  was  lifted  from  Domini's  soul. 
How  deeply  it  had  been  buried,  and  for  how  many  years. 

"  The  greatest  act  of  man  is  the  act  of  renunciation."  She 
had  just  heard  those  words.  The  eyes  of  the  priest  had  flamed 
as  he  spoke  them,  and  she  had  caught  the  spark  of  his  enthusiasm. 
But  now  another  fire  seemed  lit  within  her,  and  she  found 
herself  marvelling  at  such  austerity.  Was  it  not  a  fanatical 
defiance  flung  into  the  face  of  the  sun?  She  shrank  from  her 
own  thought,  like  one  startled,  and  walked  on  softly  in  the 
green  darkness. 

Larbi's  flute  became  more  distant.  Again  and  again  it  re- 
peated the  same  queer  little  melody,  changing  the  ornamentation 
at  the  fantasy  of  the  player.  She  looked  for  him  among  the 
trees  but  saw  no  one.  He  must  be  in  some  very  secret  place. 
Smai'n  touched  her. 

"  Look!  "  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  very  low. 

He  parted  the  branches  of  some  palms  with  his  delicate  hands, 
and  Domini,  peering  between  them,  saw  in  a  place  of  deep 
shadows  an  isolated  square  room,  whose  white  walls  were  almost 
entirely  concealed  by  masses  of  purple  bougainvillea.  It  had  a 
flat  roof.  In  three  of  its  sides  were  large  arched  window- 
spaces  without  windows.  In  the  fourth  was  a  narrow  doorway 
without  a  door.  Immense  fig  trees  and  palms  and  thickets  of 
bamboo  towered  around  it  and  leaned  above  it.  And  it  was 
circled  by  a  narrow  riband  of  finely-raked  sand. 

"  That  is  the  smoking-room  of  Monsieur  the  Count,"  said 
Smai'n.  "  He  spends  many  hours  there.  Come  and  I  will  show 
the  inside  to  Madame." 

They  turned  to  the  left  and  went  towards  the  room.  The 
flute  was  close  to  them  now. 


62  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  Larbi  must  be  in  there,"  Domini  whispered  to  Smain,  as  a 
person  whispers  in  a  church. 

"  No,  he  is  among  the  trees  beyond." 

"  But  someone  is  there." 

She  pointed  to  the  arched  window-space  nearest  to  them.  A 
thin  spiral  of  blue-grey  smoke  curled  through  it  and  evaporated 
into  the  shadows  of  the  trees.  After  a  moment  it  was  followed 
gently  and  deliberately  by  another. 

"  It  is  not  Larbi.    He  would  not  go  in  there.     It  must 

He  paused.  A  tall,  middle-aged  man  had  come  to  the  door- 
way of  the  little  room  and  looked  out  into  the  garden  with 
bright  eyes. 


CHAPTER   VI 

DOMINI  drew  back  and  glanced  at  Smain.  She  was  not  accus- 
tomed to  feeling  intrusive,  and  the  sudden  sensation  rendered 
her  uneasy. 

"  It  is  Monsieur  the  Count,"  Smain  said  calmly  and  quite 
aloud. 

The  man  in  the  doorway  took  off  his  soft  hat,  as  if  the  words 
effected  an  introduction  between  Domini  and  him. 

"You  were  coming  to  see  my  little  room,  Madame?"  he 
said  in  French.  "  If  I  may  show  it  to  you  I  shall  feel  honoured." 

The  timbre  of  his  voice  was  harsh  and  grating,  yet  it  was  a 
very  interesting,  even  a  seductive,  voice,  and,  Domini  thought, 
peculiarly  full  of  vivid  life,  though  not  of  energy.  His  manner 
at  once  banished  her  momentary  discomfort.  There  is  a  free- 
masonry between  people  born  in  the  same  social  world.  By  the 
way  in  which  Count  Anteoni  took  off  his  hat  and  spoke  she 
knew  at  once  that  all  was  right. 

"  Thank  you,  Monsieur,"  she  answered.  "  I  was  told  at 
the  gate  you  gave  permission  to  travellers  to  visit  your  garden." 

"  Certainly." 

He  spoke  a  few  words  in  fluent  Arabic  to  Smain,  who  turned 
away  and  disappeared  among  the  trees. 

"  I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to  accompany  you  through  the  rest 
of  the  garden,"  he  said,  turning  again  to  Domini.  "  It  will  give 
me  great  pleasure." 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you." 

The  way  in  which  the  change  of  companion  had  been  effected 


PRELUDE  63 

made  it  seem  a  pleasant,  inevitable  courtesy,  which  neither 
implied  nor  demanded  anything." 

"  This  is  my  little  retreat,"  Count  Anteoni  continued,  stand- 
ing aside  from  the  doorway  that  Domini  might  enter. 

She  drew  a  long  breath  when  she  was  within. 

The  floor  was  of  fine  sand,  beaten  flat  and  hard,  and  strewn 
with  Eastern  rugs  of  faint  and  delicate  hues,  dim  greens  and 
faded  rose  colours,  grey-blues  and  misty  topaz  yellows.  Round 
the  white  walls  ran  broad  divans,  also  white,  covered  with 
prayer  rugs  from  Bagdad,  and  large  cushions,  elaborately 
worked  in  dull  gold  and  silver  thread,  with  patterns  of  ibises 
and  flamingoes  in  flight.  In  the  four  angles  of  the  room  stood 
four  tiny  smoking-tables  of  rough  palm  wood,  holding  ham- 
mered ash-trays  of  bronze,  green  bronze  torches  for  the  lighting 
of  cigarettes,  and  vases  of  Chinese  dragon  china  filled  with 
velvety  red  roses,  gardenias  and  sprigs  of  orange  blossom. 
Leather  footstools,  covered  with  Tunisian  thread-work,  lay 
beside  them.  From  the  arches  of  the  window-spaces  hung  old 
Moorish  lamps  of  copper,  fitted  with  small  panes  of  dull 
jewelled  glass,  such  as  may  be  seen  in  venerable  church  win- 
dows. In  a  round  copper  brazier,  set  on  one  of  the  window- 
seats,  incense  twigs  were  drowsily  burning  and  giving  out  thin, 
dwarf  columns  of  scented  smoke.  Through  the  archways  and 
the  narrow  doorway  the  dense  wralls  of  leafage  were  visible 
standing  on  guard  about  this  airy  hermitage,  and  the  hot  purple 
blossoms  of  the  bougainvillea  shed  a  cloud  of  colour  through 
the  bosky  dimness. 

And  still  the  flute  of  Larbi  showered  soft,  clear,  whimsical 
music  from  some  hidden  place  close  by. 

Domini  looked  at  her  host,  who  was  standing  by  the  door- 
way, leaning  one  arm  against  the  ivory-white  wall. 

"  This  is  my  first  day  in  Africa,"  she  said  simply.  "  You 
may  imagine  what  I  think  of  your  garden,  what  1  feel  in  it.  I 
needn't  tell  you.  Indeed,  I  am  sure  the  travellers  you  so  kindly 
let  in  must  often  have  worried  you  with  their  raptures." 

"No,"  he  answered,  with  a  still  gravity  which  yet  suggested 
kindness,  "  for  I  leave  nearly  always  before  the  travellers  come. 
That  sounds  a  little  rude?  But  you  would  not  be  in  Beni- 
Mora  at  this  season,  Madame,  if  it  could  include  you." 

"  I  have  come  here  for  peace,"  Domini  replied  simply. 

She  said  it  because  she  felt  as  if  it  was  already  understood  by 
her  companion. 

Count  Anteoni  took  down  his  arm  from  the  white  wall  and 


64  THE  GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

pulled  a  branch  of  the  purple  flowers  slowly  towards  him 
through  the  doorway. 

"  There  is  peace — what  is  generally  called  so,  at  least — in 
Beni-Mora,"  he  answered  rather  slowly  and  meditatively. 
"  That  is  to  say,  there  is  similarity  of  day  with  day,  night  with 
night.  The  sun  shines  untiringly  over  the  desert,  and  the  desert 
always  hints  at  peace." 

He  let  the  flowers  go,  and  they  sprang  softly  back,  and 
hung  quivering  in  the  space  beyond  his  thin  figure.  Then 
he  added: 

"  Perhaps  one  should  not  say  more  than  that." 

"  No." 

Domini  sat  down  for  a  moment.  She  looked  up  at  him  with 
her  direct  eyes  and  at  the  shaking  flowers.  The  sound  of 
Larbi's  flute  was  always  in  her  ears. 

"  But  may  not  one  think,  feel  a  little  more?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  why  not?  If  one  can,  if  one  must?  But  how? 
Africa  is  as  fierce  and  full  of  meaning  as  a  furnace,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know — already,"  she  replied. 

His  words  expressed  what  she  had  already  felt  here  in  Beni- 
Mora,  surreptitiously  and  yet  powerfully.  He  said  it,  and  last 
night  the  African  hautboy  had  said  it.  Peace  and  a  flame. 
Could  they  exist  together,  blended,  married? 

"  Africa  seems  to  me  to  agree  through  contradiction,"  she 
added,  smiling  a  little,  and  touching  the  snowy  wall  with  her 
right  hand.  "  But  then,  this  is  my  first  day." 

"  Mine  was  when  I  was  a  boy  of  sixteen." 

"This  garden  wasn't  here  then?" 

"  No.  I  had  it  made.  I  came  here  with  my  mother.  She 
spoilt  me.  She  let  me  have  my  whim." 

"  This  garden  is  your  boy's  whim  ?  " 

"  It  was.    Now  it  is  a  man's " 

He  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"  Paradise,"  suggested  Domini. 

"  I  think  I  was  going  to  say  hiding-place." 

There  was  no  bitterness  in  his  odd,  ugly  voice,  yet  surely  the 
words  implied  bitterness.  The  wounded,  the  fearfuL  the  dis- 
appointed, the  condemned  hide.  Perhaps  he  remembered  this, 
for  he  added  rather  quickly: 

"  I  come  here  to  be  foolish,  Madame,  for  I  come  here  to 
think.  This  is  my  special  thinking  place." 

"  How  strange!  "  Domini  exclaimed  impulsively,  and  leaning 
forward  on  the  divan. 


PRELUDE  65 

"Is  it?" 

"  I  only  mean  that  already  Beni-Mora  has  seemed  to  me  the 
ideal  place  for  that." 

"For  thought?" 

"  For  finding  out  interior  truth." 

Count  Anteoni  looked  at  her  rather  swiftly  and  searchingly. 
His  eyes  were  not  large,  but  they  were  bright,  and  held  none  of 
the  languor  so  often  seen  in  the  eyes  of  his  countrymen.  His 
face  was  expressive  through  its  mobility  rather  than  through  its 
contours.  The  features  were  small  and  refined,  not  noble,  but 
unmistakably  aristocratic.  The  nose  was  sensitive,  with  wide 
nostrils.  A  long  and  straight  moustache,  turning  slightly  grey, 
did  not  hide  the  mouth,  which  had  unusually  pale  lips.  The 
ears  were  set  very  flat  against  the  head,  and  were  finely  shaped. 
The  chin  was  pointed.  The  general  look  of  the  whole  face  was 
tense,  critical,  conscious,  but  in  the  defiant  rather  than  in  the 
timid  sense.  Such  an  expression  belongs  to  men  who  would 
always  be  aware  of  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  others  con- 
cerning them,  but  who  would  throw  those  thoughts  and  feelings 
off  as  decisively  and  energetically  as  a  dog  shakes  the  water- 
drops  from  its  coat  on  emerging  from  a  swim. 

"  And  sending  it  forth,  like  Ishmael,  to  shift  for  itself  in  the 
desert,"  he  said. 

The  odd  remark  sounded  like  neither  statement  nor  question, 
merely  like  the  sudden  exclamation  of  a  mind  at  work. 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  take  you  through  the  rest  of  the 
garden,  Madame?  "  he  added  in  a  more  formal  voice. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Domini,  who  had  already  got  up,  moved 
by  the  examining  look  cast  at  her. 

There  was  nothing  in  it  to  resent,  and  she  had  not  resented 
it,  but  it  had  recalled  her  to  the  consciousness  that  they  were 
utter  strangers  to  each  other. 

As  they  came  out  on  the  pale  riband  of  sand  which  circled 
the  little  room  Domini  said : 

"  How  wild  and  extraordinary  that  tune  is !  " 

"  Larbi's.  I  suppose  it  is,  but  no  African  music  seems  strange 
to  me.  I  was  born  on  my  father's  estate,  near  Tunis.  He  was 
a  Sicilian,  but  came  to  North  Africa  each  winter.  I  have 
always  heard  the  tom-toms  and  the  pipes,  and  I  know  nearly 
all  the  desert  songs  of  the  nomads." 

"  This  is  a  love-song,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Larbi  is  always  in  love,  they  tell  me.  Each  new 
dancer  catches  him  in  her  net,  Happy  Larbi !  " 


66  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

"  Because  he  can  love  so  easily?  " 

"  Or  unlove  so  easily.     Look  at  him,  Madame." 

At  a  little  distance,  under  a  big  banana  tree,  and  half  hidden 
by  clumps  of  scarlet  geraniums,  Domini  saw  a  huge  and  very 
ugly  Arab,  with  an  almost  black  skin,  squatting  on  his  heels, 
with  a  long  yellow  and  red  flute  between  his  thick  lips.  His 
eyes  were  bent  down,  and  he  did  not  see  them,  but  went  on 
busily  playing,  drawing  from  his  flute  coquettish  phrases  with 
his  big  and  bony  fingers. 

"  And  I  pay  him  so  much  a  week  all  the  year  round  for  doing 
that,"  the  Count  said. 

His  grating  voice  sounded  kind  and  amused.  They  walked 
on,  and  Larbi's  tune  died  gradually  away. 

"  Somehow  I  can't  be  angry  with  the  follies  and  vices  of 
the  Arabs,"  the  Count  continued.  "  I  love  them  as  they  are ; 
idle,  absurdly  amorous,  quick  to  shed  blood,  gay  as  children, 
whimsical  as — well,  Madame,  were  I  talking  to  a  man  I  might 
dare  to  say  pretty  women." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  will,  then.  I  glory  in  their  ingrained  contempt  of  civi- 
lisation. But  I  like  them  to  say  their  prayers  five  times  in  the 
day  as  it  is  commanded,  and  no  Arab  who  touches  alcohol  in 
defiance  of  the  Prophet's  law  sets  foot  in  my  garden." 

There  was  a  touch  of  harshness  in  his  voice  as  he  said  the 
last  words,  the  sound  of  the  autocrat.  Somehow  Domini  liked 
iti  This  man  had  convictions,  and  strong  ones.  That  was 
certain.  There  was  something  oddly  unconventional  in  him 
which  something  in  her  responded  to.  He  was  perfectly  polite, 
and  yet,  she  was  quite  sure,  absolutely  careless  of  opinion. 
Certainly  he  was  very  much  a  man. 

"  It  is  pleasant,  too,"  he  resumed,  after  a  slight  pause,  "  to 
be  surrounded  by  absolutely  thoughtless  people  with  thoughtful 
faces  and  mysterious  eyes — wells  without  truth  at  the  bottom  of 
them." 

She  laughed. 

"  No  one  must  think  here  but  you !  " 

"  I  prefer  to  keep  all  the  folly  to  myself.  Is  not  that  a  grand 
cocoanut  ?  " 

He  pointed  to  a  tree  so  tall  that  it  seemed  soaring  to  heaven. 

"  Yes,  indeed.  Like  the  one  that  presides  over  the  purple 
dog." 

"  You  have  seen  my  fetish  ?  " 

"  Sma'in  showed  him  to  me,  with  reverence." 


PRELUDE  67 

"  Oh,  he  is  king  here.  The  Arabs  declare  that  on  moonlight 
nights  they  have  heard  him  joining  in  the  chorus  of  the  Kabyle 
dogs." 

"  You  speak  almost  as  if  you  believed  it." 

"  Well,  I  believe  more  here  than  I  believe  anywhere  else. 
That  is  partly  why  I  come  here." 

"  I  can  understand  that — I  mean  believing  much  here." 

"  What !  Already  you  feel  the  spell  of  Beni-Mora,  the 
desert  spell!  Yes,  there  is  enchantment  here — and  so  I  never 
stay  too  long." 

"For  fear  of  what?" 

Count  Anteoni  was  walking  easily  beside  her.  He  walked 
from  the  hips,  like  many  Sicilians,  swaying  very  slightly,  as  if  he 
liked  to  be  aware  how  supple  his  body  still  was.  As  Domini 
spoke  he  stopped.  They  were  now  at  a  place  where  four  paths 
joined,  and  could  see  four  vistas  of  green  and  gold,  of  magical 
sunlight  and  shadow. 

"  I  scarcely  know ;  of  being  carried  who  knows  where — in 
mind  or  heart.  Oh,  there  is  danger  in  Beni-Mora,  Madame, 
there  is  danger.  This  startling  air  is  full  of  influences,  of  desert 
spirits." 

He  looked  at  her  in  a  way  she  could  not  understand — but  it 
made  her  think  of  the  perfume-seller  in  his  little  dark  room,  and 
of  the  sudden  sensation  she  had  had  that  mystery  coils,  like  a 
black  serpent,  in  the  shining  heart  of  the  East. 

"And  now,  Madame,  which  path  shall  we  take?  This  one 
leads  to  my  drawing-room,  that  on  the  right  to  the  Moorish 
bath." 

"And  that?" 

"  That  one  goes  straight  down  to  the  wall  that  overlooks  the 
Sahara." 

"  Please  let  us  take  it." 

"The  desert  spirits  are  calling  to  you?  But  you  are  wise. 
What  makes  this  garden  rr.ther  remarkable  is  not  its  arrange- 
ment, the  number  and  variety  of  its  trees,  but  the  fact  that  it 
lies  flush  with  the  Sahara — like  a  man's  thoughts  of  truth  with 
Truth,  perhaps." 

He  turned  up  the  tail  of  the  sentence  and  his  harsh  voice  gave 
a  little  grating  crack. 

"  I  don't  believe  they  are  so  different  from  one  another  as 
the  garden  and  the  desert." 

She  looked  at  him  directly. 

"  It  would  be  too  ironical," 


68  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

"  But  nothing  is,"  the  Count  said. 

"You  have  discovered  that  in  this  garden?  " 

"  Ah,  it  is  new  to  you,  Madame!  " 

For  the  first  time  there  was  a  sound  of  faint  bitterness  in  his 
voice. 

"  One  often  discovers  the  saddest  thing  in  the  loveliest 
place,"  he  added.  "  There  you  begin  to  see  the  desert." 

Far  away,  at  the  small  orifice  of  the  tunnel  of  trees  down 
which  they  were  walking,  appeared  a  glaring  patch  of  fierce 
and  quivering  sunlight. 

"  I  can  only  see  the  sun,"  Domini  said. 

"  I  know  so  well  what  it  hides  that  I  imagine  I  actually  see 
the  desert.  One  loves  one's  kind,  assiduous  liar.  Isn't  it  so?  " 

"  The  imagination?  But  perhaps  I  am  not  disposed  to  allow 
that  it  is  a  liar." 

"  Who  knows?     You  may  be  right." 

He  looked  at  her  kindly  with  his  bright  eyes.  It  did  not 
seem  to  strike  him  that  their  conversation  was  curiously  inti- 
mate, considering  that  they  were  strangers  to  one  another,  that 
he  did  not  even  know  her  name.  Domini  wondered  suddenly 
how  old  he  was.  That  look  made  him  seem  much  older  than 
he  had  seemed  before.  There  was  such  an  expression  in  his 
eyes  as  may  sometimes  be  seen  in  eyes  that  look  at  a  child  who 
is  kissing  a  rag  doll  with  deep  and  determined  affection.  "  Kiss 
your  doll !  "  they  seemed  to  say.  "  Put  off  the  years  when  you 
must  know  that  dolls  can  never  return  a  kiss." 

"  I  begin  to  see  the  desert  now,"  Domini  said  after  a  moment 
of  silent  walking.  "  How  wonderful  it  is!  " 

"  Yes,  it  is.  The  most  wonderful  thing  in  Nature.  You 
will  think  it  much  more  wonderful  when  you  fancy  you  know 
it  well." 

"Fancy!" 

"  I  don't  think  anyone  can  ever  really  know  the  desert.  It 
is  the  thing  that  keeps  calling,  and  does  not  permit  one  to  draw 
near." 

"  But  then,  one  might  learn  to  hate  it." 

"  I  don't  think  so.  Truth  does  just  the  same,  you  know. 
And  yet  men  keep  on  trying  to  draw  near." 

"  But  sometimes  they  succeed." 

"  Do  they?     Not  when  they  live  in  gardens." 

He  laughed  for  the  first  time  since  they  had  been  together, 
and  all  his  face  was  covered  with  a  network  of  little  moving 
lines. 


PRELUDE  69 

"  One  should  never  live  in  a  garden,  Madame." 

"  I  will  try  to  take  your  word  for  it,  but  the  task  will  be 
difficult." 

"  Yes  ?  More  difficult,  perhaps,  when  you  see  what  lies 
beside  my  thoughts  of  truth." 

As  he  spoke  they  came  out  from  the  tunnel  and  were  seized 
by  the  fierce  hands  of  the  sun.  It  was  within  half  an  hour  of 
noon,  and  the  radiance  was  blinding.  Domini  put  up  her 
parasol  sharply,  like  one  startled.  She  stopped. 

"  But  how  tremendous!  "  she  exclaimed. 

Count  Anteoni  laughed  again,  and  drew  down  the  brim  of  his 
grey  hat  over  his  eyes.  The  hand  with  which  he  did  it  was 
almost  as  burnt  as  an  Arab's. 

"  You  are  afraid  of  it?  " 

"  No,  no.  But  it  startled  me.  We  don't  know  the  sun 
really  in  Europe." 

"  No.  Not  even  in  Southern  Italy,  not  even  in  Sicily.  It  is 
fierce  there  in  summer,  but  it  seems  further  away.  Here  it 
insists  on  the  most  intense  intimacy.  If  you  can  bear  it  we 
might  sit  down  for  a  moment?  " 

"  Please." 

All  along  the  edge  of  the  garden,  from  the  villa  to  the 
boundary  of  Count  Anteoni's  domain,  ran  a  straight  high  wall 
made  of  earth  bricks  hardened  by  the  sun  and  topped  by  a 
coping  of  palm  wood  painted  white.  This  wall  was  some  eight 
feet  high  on  the  side  next  to  the  desert,  but  the  garden  was 
raised  in  such  a  way  that  the  inner  side  was  merely  a  low 
parapet  running  along  the  sand  path.  In  this  parapet  were  cut 
small  seats,  like  window-seats,  in  which  one  could  rest  and  look 
full  upon  the  desert  as  from  a  little  cliff.  Domini  sat  down  on 
one  of  them,  and  the  Count  stood  by  her,  resting  one  foot  on  the 
top  of  the  wall  and  leaning  his  right  arm  on  his  knee. 

"  There  is  the  world  on  which  I  look  for  my  hiding-place," 
he  said.  "  A  vast  world,  isn't  it?  " 

Domini  nodded  without  speaking. 

Immediately  beneath  them,  in  the  narow  shadow  of  the  wall, 
was  a  path  of  earth  and  stones  which  turned  off  at  the  right  at 
the  end  of  the  garden  into  the  oasis.  Beyond  lay  the  vast  river 
bed,  a  chaos  of  hot  boulders  bounded  by  ragged  low  earth  cliffs, 
interspersed  here  and  there  with  small  pools  of  gleaming  water. 
These  cliffs  were  yellow.  From  their  edge  stretched  the  desert, 
as  Eternity  stretches  from  the  edge  of  Time.  Only  to  the  left 
was  the  immeasurable  expanse  intruded  upon  by  a  long  spur  of 


70  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

mountains,  which  ran  out  boldly  for  some  distance  and  then 
stopped  abruptly,  conquered  and  abashed  by  the  imperious  flats. 
Beneath  the  mountains  were  low,  tent-like,  cinnamon-coloured 
undulations,  which  reminded  Domini  of  those  made  by  a  shaken- 
out  sheet,  one  smaller  than  the  other  till  they  melted  into  the 
level.  The  summits  of  the  most  distant  mountains,  which 
leaned  away  as  if  in  fear  of  the  desert,  were  dark  and  mistily 
purple.  Their  flanks  were  iron  grey  at  this  hour,  flecked  in 
the  hollows  with  the  faint  mauve  and  pink  which  became  carna- 
tion colour  when  the  sun  set. 

Domini  scarcely  looked  at  them.  Till  now  she  had  always 
thought  that  she  loved  mountains.  The  desert  suddenly  made 
them  insignificant,  almost  mean  to  her.  She  turned  her  eyes 
towards  the  flat  spaces.  It  was  in  them  that  majesty  lay, 
mystery,  power,  and  all  deep  and  significant  things.  In  the 
midst  of  the  river  bed,  and  quite  near,  rose  a  round  and  squat 
white  tower  with  a  small  cupola.  Beyond  it,  on  the  little  cliff, 
was  a  tangle  of  palms  where  a  tiny  oasis  sheltered  a  few  native 
huts.  At  an  immense  distance,  here  and  there,  other  oases 
showed  as  dark  stains  show  on  the  sea  where  there  are  hidden 
rocks.  And  still  farther  away,  on  all  hands,  the  desert  seemed 
to  curve  up  slightly  like  a  shallow  wine-hued  <;up  to  the  misty 
blue  horizon  line,  which  resembled  a  faintly  seen  and  mysterious 
tropical  sea,  so  distant  that  its  sultry  murmur  was  lost  in  the 
embrace  of  the  intervening  silence. 

An  Arab  passed  on  the  path  below  the  wall.  He  did  not  see 
them.  A  white  dog  with  curling  lips  ran  beside  him.  He  was 
singing  to  himself  in  a  low,  inward  voice.  He  went  on  and 
turned  towards  the  oasis,  still  singing  as  he  walked  slowly. 

"  Do  you  know  what  he  is  singing?  "  the  Count  asked. 

Domini  shook  her  head.  She  was  straining  her  ears  to  hear 
the  melody  as  long  as  possible. 

"  It  is  a  desert  song  of  the  freed  negroes  of  Touggourt — '  No 
one  but  God  and  I  knows  what  is  in  my  heart.'  " 

Domini  lowered  her  parasol  to  conceal  her  face.  In  the 
distance  she  could  still  hear  the  song,  but  it  was  dying  away. 

"  Oh!  what  is  going  to  happen  to  me  here?  "  she  thought. 

Count  Anteoni  was  looking  away  from  her  now  across  the 
desert.  A  strange  impulse  rose,  up  in  her.  She  could  not 
resist  it.  She  put  down  her  parasol,  exposing  herself  to  the 
blinding  sunlight,  knelt  down  on  the  hot  sand,  leaned  her  arms 
on  the  white  parapet,  put  her  chin  in  the  upturned  palms  of 
her  hands  and  stared  into  the  desert  almost  fiercely. 


PRELUDE  71 

"  No  one  but  God  and  I  knows  what  is  in  my  heart,"  she 
thought.  "  But  that's  not  true,  that's  not  true.  For  I  don't 
know." 

The  last  echo  of  the  Arab's  song  fainted  on  the  blazing  air. 
Surely  it  had  changed  now.  Surely,  as  he  turned  into  the 
shadows  of  the  palms,  he  was  singing,  "  No  one  but  God  knows 
what  is  in  my  heart."  Yes,  he  was  singing  that.  "  No  one 
but  God — no  one  but  God." 

Count  Anteoni  looked  down  at  her.  She  did  not  notice  it, 
and  he  kept  his  eyes  on  her  for  a  moment.  Then  he  turned  to 
the  desert  again. 

By  degrees,  as  she  watched,  Domini  became  aware  of  many 
things  indicative  of  life,  and  of  many  lives  in  the  tremendous 
expanse  that  at  first  had  seemed  empty  of  all  save  sun  and 
mystery.  She  saw  low,  scattered  tents,  far-off  columns  of  smoke 
rising.  She  saw  a  bird  pass  across  the  blue  and  vanish  towards 
the  mountains.  iBlack  shapes  appeared  among  the  tiny  mounds 
of  earth,  crowned  with  dusty  grass  and  dwarf  tamarisk  bushes. 
She  saw  them  move,  like  objects  in  a  dream,  slowly  through  the 
shimmering  gold.  They  were  feeding  camels,  guarded  by 
nomads  whom  she  could  not  see. 

At  first  she  persistently  explored  the  distances,  carried 
forcibly  by  an  elan  of  her  whole  nature  to  the  remotest  points 
her  eyes  could  reach.  Then  she  withdrew  her  gaze  gradually, 
reluctantly,  from  the  hidden  summoning  lands,  whose  verges 
she  had  with  difficulty  gained,  and  looked,  at  first  with  appre- 
hension, upon  the  nearer  regions.  But  her  apprehension  died 
when  she  found  that  the  desert  transmutes  what  is  close  as  well 
as  what  is  remote,  suffuses  even  that  which  the  hand  could 
almost  touch  with  wonder,  beauty,  and  the  deepest,  most  strange 
significance. 

Quite  near  in  the  river  bed  she  saw  an  Arab  riding  towards 
the  desert  upon  a  prancing  black  horse.  He  mounted  a  steep 
bit  of  path  and  came  out  on  the  flat  ground  at  the  cliff  top. 
Then  he  set  his  horse  at  a  gallop,  raising  his  bridle  hand  and 
striking  his  heels  into  the  flanks  of  the  beast.  And  each  of  his 
movements,  each  of  the  movements  of  his  horse,  was  pro- 
foundly interesting,  and  held  the  attention  of  the  onlooker  in 
a  vice,  as  if  the  fates  of  worlds  depended  upon  where  he  was 
carried  and  how  soon  he  reached  his  goal.  A  string  of  camels 
laden  with  wooden  bales  met  him  on  the  way,  and  this  chance 
encounter  seemed  to  Domini  fraught  with  almost  terrible  possi- 
bilities. Why?  She  did  not  ask  herself.  Again  she  sent  her 


72  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

gaze  further,  to  the  black  shapes  moving  stealthily  among  the 
little  mounds,  to  the  spirals  of  smoke  rising  into  the  glimmering 
air.  Who  guarded  those  camels?  Who  fed  those  distant 
fires?  Who  watched  beside  them?  It  seemed  of  vital  conse- 
quence to  her  that  she  should  know. 

Count  Anteoni  took  out  his  watch  and  glanced  at  it. 

"  I  am  looking  to  see  if  it  is  nearly  the  hour  of  prayer,"  he 
said.  "  When  I  am  in  Beni-Mora  I  usually  come  here  then." 

"  You  turn  to  the  desert  as  the  faithful  turn  towards 
Mecca?" 

"  Yes.     I  like  to  see  men  praying  in  the  desert." 

He  spoke  indifferently,  but  Domini  felt  suddenly  sure  that 
within  him  there  were  depths  of  imagination,  of  tenderness, 
even  perhaps  of  mysticism. 

"  An  atheist  in  the  desert  is  unimaginable,"  he  added.  "  In 
cathedrals  they  may  exist  very  likely,  and  even  feel  at  home.  I 
have  seen  cathedrals  in  which  I  could  believe  I  was  one,  but — 
how  many  human  beings  can  you  see  in  the  desert  at  this 
moment,  Madame?" 

Domini,  still  with  her  round  chin  in  her  hands,  searched  the 
blazing  region  with  her  eyes.  She  saw  three  running  figures 
with  the  train  of  camels  which  was  now  descending  into  the 
river  bed.  In  the  shadow  of  the  low  white  tower  two  more 
were  huddled,  motionless.  She  looked  away  to  right  and  left, 
but  saw  only  the  shallow  pools,  the  hot  and  gleaming  boulders, 
and  beyond  the  yellow  cliffs  the  brown  huts  peeping  through 
the  palms.  The  horseman  had  disappeared. 

'  I  can  see  five,"  she  answered. 

1  Ah !  you  are  not  accustomed  to  the  desert." 

'  There  are  more?  " 

*  I  could  count  up  to  a  dozen.     Which  are  yours  ?  " 

*  The  men  .with  the  camels  and  the  men  under  that  tower." 
'  There  are  four  playing  the  jeu  des  dames  in  the  shadow 

of  the  cliff  opposite  to  us.  There  is  one  asleep  under  a  red  rock 
where  the  path  ascends  into  the  desert.  And  there  are  two 
more  just  at  the  edge  of  the  little  oasis — Filiash,  as  it  is  called. 
One  is  standing  under  a  palm,  and  one  is  pacing  up  and  down." 

"  You  must  have  splendid  eyes." 

"  They  are  trained  to  the  desert.  But  there  are  probably  a 
score  of  Arabs  within  sight  whom  I  don't  see." 

"  Oh !  now  I  see  the  men  at  the  edge  of  the  oasis.  How 
oddly  that  one  is  moving.  He  goes  up  and  down  like  a  sailor  on 
the  guarter-deck." 


PRELUDE  73 

"  Yes,  it  is  curious.  And  he  is  in  the  full  blaze  of  the  sun. 
That  can't  be  an  Arab." 

He  drew  a  silver  whistle  from  his  waistcoat  pocket,  put  it  to 
his  lips  and  sounded  a  call.  In  a  moment  Smai'n  same  running 
lightly  over  the  sand.  Count  Anteoni  said  something  to  him  in 
Arabic.  He  disappeared,  and  speedily  returned  with  a  pair  of 
field-glasses.  While  he  was  gone  Domini  watched  the  two  doll- 
like  figures  on  the  cliff  in  silence.  One  was  standing  under  a 
large  isolated  palm  tree  absolutely  still,  as  Arabs  often  stand. 
The  other,  at  a  short  distance  from  him  and  full  in  the  sun, 
went  to  and  fro,  to  and  fro,  always  measuring  the  same  space 
of  desert,  and  turning  and  returning  at  two  given  points  which 
never  varied.  He  walked  like  a  man  hemmed  in  by  walls,  yet 
around  him  were  the  infinite  spaces.  The  effect  was  singularly 
unpleasant  upon  Domini.  All  things  in  the  desert,  as  she  had 
already  noticed,  became  almost  terribly  significant,  and  this 
peculiar  activity  seemed  full  of  some  extraordinary  and  even 
horrible  meaning.  She  watched  it  with  straining  eyes. 

Count  Anteoni  took  the  glasses  from  Sma'in  and  looked 
through  them,  adjusting  them  carefully  to  suit  his  sight. 

"  Eccof "  he  said.  "  I  was  right.  That  man  is  not  an 
Arab." 

He  moved  the  glasses  and  glanced  at  Domini. 

"  You  are  not  the  only  traveller  here,  Madame." 

He  looked  through  the  glasses  again. 

"  I  knew  that,"  she  said. 

"Indeed?" 

"  There  is  one  at  my  hotel." 

"  Possibily  this  is  he.  He  makes  me  think  of  a  caged  tiger, 
who  has  been  so  long  in  captivity  that  when  you  let  him  out  he 
still  imagines  the  bars  to  be  all  round  him.  What  was  he 
like?" 

All  the  time  he  was  speaking  he  was  staring  intently  through 
the  glasses.  As  Domini  did  not  reply  he  removed  them  from 
his  eyes  and  glanced  at  her  inquiringly. 

"  I  am  trying  to  think  what  he  looked  like,"  she  said  slowly. 
"  But  I  feel  that  I  don't  know.  He  was  quite  unlike  any  ordi- 
nary man." 

"Would  you  care  to  see  if  you  can  recognise  him?  These 
are  really  marvellous  glasses." 

Domini  took  them  from  him  with  some  eagerness. 

"  Twist  them  about  till  they  suit  your  eyes." 

At  first  she  could  see  nothing  but  a  fierce  yellow  glare.     She 


74  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

turned  the  screw  and  gradually  the  desert  came  to  her, 
startlingly  distinct.  The  boulders  of  the  river  bed  were 
enormous.  She  could  see  the  veins  of  colour  in  them,  a  lizard 
running  over  one  of  them  and  disappearing  into  a  dark  crevice, 
then  the  white  tower  and  the  Arabs  beneath  it.  One  was  an 
old  man  yawning;  the  other  a  boy.  He  rubbed  the  tip  of  his 
brown  nose,  and  she  saw  the  henna  stains  upon  his  nails.  She 
lifted  the  glasses  slowly  and  with  precaution.  The  tower  ran 
away.  She  came  to  the  low  cliff,  to  the  brown  huts  and  the 
palms,  passed  them  one  by  one,  and  reached  the  last,  which  was 
separated  from  its  companions.  Under  it  stood  a  tall  Arab 
in  a  garment  like  a  white  night-shirt. 

"  He  looks  as  if  he  had  only  one  eye!  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  The  palm-tree  man — yes." 

She  travelled  cautiously  away  from  him,  keeping  the  glasses 
level. 

"  Ah !  "  she  said  on  an  indrawn  breath. 

As  she  spoke  the  thin,  nasal  cry  of  a  distant  voice  broke  upon 
her  ears,  prolonging  a  strange  call. 

"  The  Mueddin,"  said  Count  Anteoni. 

And  he  repeated  in  a  low  tone  the  words  of  the  angel  to  the 
prophet :  "  Oh  thou  that  art  covered  arise  .  .  .  and 
magnify  thy  Lord;  and  purify  thy  clothes,  and  depart  from 
uncleanness." 

The  call  died  away  and  was  renewed  three  times.  The  old 
man  and  the  boy  beneath  the  tower  turned  their  faces  towards 
Mecca,  fell  upon  their  knees  and  bowed  their  heads  to  the  hot 
stones.  The  tall  Arab  under  the  palm  sank  down  swiftly. 
Domini  kept  the  glasses  at  her  eyes.  Through  them,  as  in  a 
sort  of  exaggerated  vision,  very  far  off,  yet  intensely  distinct,  she 
saw  the  man  with  whom  she  had  travelled  in  the  train.  He 
went  to  and  fro,  to  and  fro  on  the  burning  ground  till  the 
fourth  call  of  the  Mueddin  died  away.  Then,  as  he  approached 
the  isolated  palm  tree  and  saw  the  Arab  beneath  it  fall  to  the 
earth  and  bow  his  long  body  in  prayer,  he  paused  and  stood 
still  as  if  in  contemplation.  The  glasses  were  so  powerful 
that  It  was  possible  to  see  the  expressions  on  faces  even  at  that 
distance.  The  expression  on  the  traveller's  face  was,  or  seemed 
to  be,  at  first  one  of  profound  attention.  But  this  changed 
swiftly  as  he  watched  the  bowing  figure,  and  was  succeeded 
by  a  look  of  uneasiness,  then  of  fierce  disgust,  then — surely — 
of  fear  or  horror.  He  turned  sharply  away  like  a  driven  man, 
and  hurried  off  alonq;  the  cliff  edge  in  a  striding  walk,  quicken- 


PRELUDE  75 

ing  his  steps  each  moment  till  his  departure  became  a  flight. 
He  disappeared  behind  a  projection  of  earth  where  the  path 
sank  to  the  river  bed. 

Domini  laid  the  glasses  down  on  the  wall  and  looked  at 
Count  Anteoni. 

"You  say  an  atheist  in  the  desert  is  unimaginable?" 

"Isn't  it  true?" 

"  Has  an  atheist  a  hatred,  a  horror  of  prayer?  " 

"  Chi  lo  sa?  The  devil  shrank  away  from  the  lifted 
Cross." 

"  Because  he  knew  how  much  that  was  true  it  symbolised." 

"  No  doubt  had  it  been  otherwise  he  would  have  jeered,  not 
cowered.  But  why  do  you  ask  me  this  question,  Madame?  " 

"  I  have  just  seen  a  man  flee  from  the  sight  of  prayer." 

"Your  fellow-traveller?" 

"  Yes.     It  was  horrible." 

She  gave  him  back  the  glasses. 

"  They  reveal  that  which  should  be  hidden,"  she  said. 

Count  Anteoni  took  the  glasses  slowly  from  her  hands.  As 
he  bent  to  do  it  he  looked  steadily  at  her,  and  she  could  not 
read  the  expression  in  his  eyes. 

"  The  desert  is  full  of  truth.  Is  that  what  you  mean?  "  he 
asked. 

She  made  no  reply.  Count  Anteoni  stretched  out  his  hand 
to  the  shining  expanse  before  them. 

"  The  man  who  is  afraid  of  prayer  is  unwise  to  set  foot 
beyond  the  palm  trees,"  he  said. 

"Why  unwise?" 

He  answered  her  very  gravely. 

"The  Arabs  have  a  saying:  '  The  desert  is  the  garden  of 
Allah.' J) 

Domini  did  not  ascend  the  tower  of  the  hotel  that  morning. 
She  had  seen  enough  for  the  moment,  and  did  not  wish  to 
disturb  her  impressions  by  adding  to  them.  So  she  walked  back 
to  the  Hotel  du  Desert  with  Batouch. 

Count  Anteoni  had  said  good-bye  to  her  at  the  door  of  the 
garden,  and  had  begged  her  to  come  again  whenever  she  liked, 
and  to  spend  as  many  hours  there  as  she  pleased. 

"  I  shall  take  you  at  your  word,"  she  said  frankly.  "  I  feel 
that  I  may." 

^As  they  shook  hands  she  gave  him  her  card.     He  took  out 
his. 


76  THE  GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  "  the  big  hotel  you  passed  in  coming 
here  is  mine.  I  built  it  to  prevent  a  more  hideous  one  being 
built,  and  let  it  to  the  proprietor.  You  might  like  to  ascend 
the  tower.  The  view  at  sundown  is  incomparable.  At  present 
the  hotel  is  shut,  but  the  guardian  will  show  you  everything 
if  you  give  him  my  card." 

He  pencilled  some  words  in  Arabic  on  the  back  from  right 
to  left. 

"  You  write  Arabic,  too?  "  Domini  said,  watching  the  form- 
ing of  the  pretty  curves  with  interest. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  am  more  than  half  African,  though  my  father 
was  a  Sicilian  and  my  mother  a  Roman." 

He  gave  her  the  card,  took  off  his  hat  and  bowed.  When 
the  tall  white  door  was  softly  shut  by  Smain,  Domini  felt 
rather  like  a  new  Eve  expelled  from  Paradise,  without  an  Adam 
as  a  companion  in  exile. 

"Well,  Madame?"  said  Batouch.  "Have  I  spoken  the 
truth?" 

"  Yes.  No  European  garden  can  be  so  beautiful  as  that. 
Now  I  am  going  straight  home." 

She  smiled  to  herself  as  she  said  the  last  word. 

Outside  the  hotel  they  found  Hadj  looking  ferocious.  He 
exchanged  some  words  with  Batouch,  accompanying  them  with 
violent  gestures.  When  he  had  finished  speaking  he  spat  upon 
the  ground. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him?  "  Domini  asked. 

"  The  Monsieur  who  is  staying  here  would  not  take  him 
to-day,  but  went  into  the  desert  alone.  Hadj  wishes  that  the 
nomads  may  cut  his  throat,  and  that  his  flesh  may  be  eaten  by 
jackals.  Hadj  is  sure  that  he  is  a  bad  man  and  will  come  to  a 
bad  end." 

"  Because  he  does  not  want  a  guide  every  day!  But  neither 
shall  I." 

"  Madame  is  quite  different.  I  would  give  my  life  for 
Madame." 

"  Don't  do  that,  but  go  this  afternoon  and  find  me  a  horse. 
I  don't  want  a  quiet  one,  but  something  with  devil,  something 
that  a  Spahi  would  like  to  ride." 

The  desert  spirits  were  speaking  to  her  body  as  well  as  to 
her  mind.  A  physical  audacity  was  stirring  in  her,  and  she 
longed  to  give  it  vent. 

'*  Madame  is  like  the  lion.     She  is  afraid  of  nothing." 

"  You  speak  without  knowing,  Batouch.     Don't  come  for  me 


PRELUDE  77 

this  afternoon,  but  bring  round  a  horse,  if  you  can  find  one, 
to-morrow  morning." 

"  This  very  evening  I  will " 

"  No,  Batouch.     I  said  to-morrow  morning." 

She  spoke  with  a  quiet  but  inflexible  decision  which  silenced 
him.  Then  she  gave  him  ten  francs  and  went  into  the  dark 
house,  from  which  the  burning  noonday  sun  was  carefully 
excluded.  She  intended  to  rest  after  dejeuner,  and  towards 
sunset  to  go  to  the  big  hotel  and  mount  alone  to  the  summit  of 
the  tower. 

It  was  half-past  twelve,  and  a  faint  rattle  of  knives  and  forks 
from  the  salle-a-manger  told  her  that  dejeuner  was  ready.  She 
went  upstairs,  washed  her  face  and  hands  in  cold  water,  stood 
still  while  Suzanne  shook  the  dust  from  her  gown,  and  then 
descended  to  the  public  room.  The  keen  air  had  given  her  an 
appetite. 

The  salle-a-manger  was  large  and  shady,  and  was  filled  with 
small  tables,  at  only  three  of  which  were  people  sitting.  Four 
French  officers  sat  together  at  one.  A  small,  fat,  perspiring 
man  of  middle  age,  probably  a  commercial  traveller,  who  had 
eyes  like  a  melancholy  toad,  was  at  another,  eating  olives  with 
anxious  rapidity,  and  wiping  his  forehead  perpetually  with  a 
dirty  white  handkerchief.  At  the  third  was  the  priest  with 
whom  Domini  had  spoken  in  the  church.  His  napkin  was 
tucked  under  his  beard,  and  he  was  drinking  soup  as  he  bent 
well  over  his  plate. 

A  young  Arab  waiter,  with  a  thin,  dissipated  face,  stood  near 
the  door  in  bright  yellow  slippers.  When  Domini  came  in  he 
stole  forward  to  show  her  to  her  table,  making  a  soft,  shuffling 
sound  on  the  polished  wooden  floor.  The  priest  glanced  up 
over  his  napkin,  rose  and  bowed.  The  French  officers  stared 
with  an  interest  they  were  too  chivalrous  to  attempt  to  conceal. 
Only  the  fat  little  man  was  entirely  unconcerned.  He  wiped 
his  forehead,  stuck  his  fork  deftly  into  an  olive,  and  continued 
to  look  like  a  melancholy  toad  entangled  by  fate  in  commercial 
pursuits. 

Domini's  table  was  by  a  window,  across  which  green  Venetian 
shutters  were  drawn.  It  was  at  a  considerable  distance  from 
the  other  guests,  who  did  not  live  in  the  house,  but  came  there 
each  day  for  their  meals.  Near  it  she  noticed  a  table  laid  for 
one  person,  and  so  arranged  that  if  he  came  to  dejeuner  he 
would  sit  exactly  opposite  to  her.  She  wondered  if  it  was  for 
the  man  at  whom  she  had  just  been  looking  through  Count 


;8  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

Anteoni's  field-glasses,  the  man  who  had  fled  from  prayer  in 
the  "  Garden  of  Allah."  As  she  glanced  at  the  empty  chair 
standing  before  the  knives  and  forks,  and  the  white  cloth,  she 
was  uncertain  whether  she  wished  it  to  be  filled  by  the  traveller 
or  not.  She  felt  his  presence  in  Beni-Mora  as  a  warring 
element.  That  she  knew.  She  knew  also  that  she  had  come 
there  to  find  peace,  a  great  calm  and  remoteness  in  which  she 
could  at  last  grow,  develop,  loose  her  true  self  from  cramping 
bondage,  come  to  an  understanding  with  herself,  face  her  heart 
and  soul,  and — as  it  were — look  them  in  the  eyes  and  know 
them  for  what  they  were,  good  or  evil.  In  the  presence  of  this 
total  stranger  there  was  something  unpleasantly  distracting 
which  she  could  not  and  did  not  ignore,  something  which 
roused  her  antagonism  and  which  at  the  same  time  compelled 
her  attention.  She  had  been  conscious  of  it  in  the  train,  con- 
scious of  it  in  the  tunnel  at  twilight,  at  night  in  the  hotel,  and 
once  again  in  Count  Anteoni's  garden.  This  man  intruded 
himself,  no  doubt  unconsciously,  or  even  against  his  will,  into 
her  sight,  her  thoughts,  each  time  that  she  was  on  the  point 
of  giving  herself  to  what  Count  Anteoni  called  "  the  desert 
spirits."  So  it  had  been  when  the  train  ran  out  of  the  tunnel 
into  the  blue  country.  So  it  had  been  again  when  she  leaned 
on  the  white  wall  and  gazed  out  over  the  shining  fastnesses  of 
the  sun.  He  was  there  like  an  enemy,  like  something  deter- 
mined, egoistical,  that  said  to  her,  "  You  would  look  at  the 
greatness  of  the  desert,  at  immensity,  infinity,  God! — Look  at 
me."  And  she  could  not  turn  her  eyes  away.  Each  time  the 
man  had,  as  if  without  effort,  conquered  the  great  competing 
power,  fastened  her  thoughts  upon  himself,  set  her  imagination 
working  about  his  life,  even  made  her  heart  beat  faster  with 
some  thrill  of — what?  Was  it  pity?  Was  it  a  faint  horror? 
She  knew  that  to  call  the  feeling  merely  repugnance  would  not 
be  sincere.  The  intensity,  the  vitality  of  the  force  shut  up 
in  a  human  being  almost  angered  her  at  this  moment  as  she 
looked  at  the  empty  chair  and  realised  all  that  it  had  suddenly 
set  at  work.  There  was  something  insolent  in  humanity  as 
well  as  something  divine,  and  just  then  she  felt  the  insolence 
more  than  the  divinity.  Terrifically  greater,  more  overpower- 
ing than  man,  the.  desert  was  yet  also  somehow  less  than  man, 
feebler,  vaguer.  Or  else  how  could  she  have  been  grasped, 
moved,  turned  to  curiosity,  surmise,  almost  to  a  sort  of  dread — • 
all  at  the  desert's  expense — by  the  distant,  moving  figure  seen 
through  the  glasses?, 


PRELUDE  '    79 

Yes,  as  she  looked  at  the  little  white  table  and  thought  of  all 
this,  Domini  began  to  feel  angry.  But  she  was  capable  of  effort, 
wnether  mental  or  physical,  and  now  she  resolutely  switched  her 
mind  off  from  the  antagonistic  stranger  and  devoted  her 
thoughts  to  the  priest,  whose  narrow  back  she  saw  down  the 
room  in  the  distance.  As  she  ate  her  fish — a  mystery  of  the 
seas  of  Robertville — she  imagined  his  quiet  existence  in  this 
remote  place,  sunny  day  succeeding  sunny  day,  each  one  surely 
so  like  its  brother  that  life  must  become  a  sort  of  dream,  through 
which  the  voice  of  the  church  bell  called  melodiously  and  the 
incense  rising  before  the  altar  shed  a  drowsy  perfume.  How 
strange  it  must  be  really  to  live  in  Beni-Mora,  to  have  your 
house,  your  work  here,  your  friendships  here,  your  duties  here, 
perhaps  here  too  the  tiny  section  of  earth  which  would  hold  at 
the  last  your  body.  It  must  be  strange  and  monotonous,  and 
yet  surely  rather  sweet,  rather  safe. 

The  officers  lifted  their  heads  from  their  plates,  the  fat  man 
stared,  the  priest  looked  quietly  up  over  his  napkin,  and  the  Arab 
waiter  slipped  forward  with  attentive  haste.  For  the  swing 
door  of  the  salle-a-manger  at  this  moment  was  pushed  open,  and 
the  traveller — so  Domini  called  him  in  her  thoughts — entered 
and  stood  looking  with  hesitation  from  one  table  to  another. 

Domini  did  not  glance  up.  She  knew  who  it  was  and  kept 
her  eyes  resolutely  on  her  plate.  She  heard  the  Arab  speak,  a 
loud  noise  of  stout  boots  tramping  over  the  wooden  floor,  and 
the  creak  of  a  chair  receiving  a  surely  tired  body.  The  traveller 
sat  down  heavily.  She  went  on  slowly  eating  the  large  Robert- 
ville fish,  which  was  like  something  between  a  trout  and  a 
herring.  When  she  had  finished  it  she  gazed  straight  before 
her  at  the  cloth,  and  strove  to  resume  her  thoughts  of  the  priest's 
life  in  Beni-Mora.  But  she  could  not.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if 
she  were  back  again  in  Count  Anteoni's  garden.  She  looked 
once  more  through  the  glasses,  and  heard  the  four  cries  of  the 
Mueddin,  and  saw  the  pacing  figure  in  the  burning  heat,  the 
Arab  bent  in  prayer,  the  one  who  watched  him,  the  flight. 
And  she  was  indignant  with  herself  for  her  strange  inability 
to  govern  her  mind.  It  seemed  to  her  a  pitiful  thing  of  which 
she  should  be  ashamed. 

She  heard  the  waiter  set  down  a  plate  upon  the  traveller's 
table,  and  then  the  noise  of  a  liquid  being  poured  into  a  glass. 
She  could  not  keep  her  eyes  down  any  more.  Besides,  why 
should  she?  Beni-Mora  was  breeding  in  her  a  self -conscious- 
ness— or  a  too  acute  consciousness  of  others — that  was  unnatural 


8o  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

in  her.  She  had  never  been  sensitive  like  this  in  her  former  life, 
but  the  fierce  African  sun  seemed  now  to  have  thawed  the  ice 
of  her  indifference.  She  felt  everything  with  almost  un- 
pleasant acuteness.  All  her  senses  seemed  to  her  sharpened. 
She  saw,  she  heard,  as  she  had  never  seen  and  heard  till  now. 
Suddenly  she  remembered  her  almost  violent  prayer — "  Let 
me  be  alive !  Let  me  feel !  "  and  she  was  aware  that  such  a 
prayer  might  have  an  answer  that  would  be  terrible. 

Looking  up  thus  with  a  kind  of  severe  determination,  she  saw 
the  man  again.  He  was  eating  and  was  not  looking  towards 
her,  and  she  fancied  that  his  eyes  were  downcast  with  as  much 
conscious  resolution  as  hers  had  been  a  moment  before.  He 
wore  the  same  suit  as  he  had  worn  in  the  train,  but  now  it  was 
flecked  with  desert  dust.  She  could  not  "  place  "  him  at  all. 
He  was  not  of  the  small,  fat  man's  order.  They  would  have 
nothing  in  common.  With  the  French  officers?  She  could 
not  imagine  how  he  would  be  with  them.  The  only  other 
man  in  the  room — the  servant  had  gone  out  for  the  moment — 
was  the  priest.  He  and  the  priest — they  would  surely  be 
antagonists.  Had  he  not  turned  aside  to  avoid  the  priest  in 
the  tunnel?  Probably  he  was  one  of  those  many  men  who 
actively  hate  the  priesthood,  to  whom  the  soutane  is  anathema. 
Could  he  find  pleasant  companionship  with  such  a  man  as  Count 
Anteoni,  an  original  man,  no  doubt,  but  also  a  cultivated  and 
easy  man  of  the  world?  She  smiled  internally  at  the  mere 
thought.  Whatever  this  stranger  might  be  she  felt  that  he 
was  as  far  from  being  a  man  of  the  world  as  she  was  from  being 
a  Cockney  sempstress  or  a  veiled  favourite  in  a  harem.  She 
could  not,  she  found,  imagine  him  easily  at  home  with  any  type 
of  human  being  with  which  she  was  acquainted.  Yet  no  doubt, 
like  all  men,  he  had  somewhere  friends,  relations,  possibly  even 
a  wife,  children. 

No  doubt — then  why  could  she  not  believe  it  ? 

The  man  had  finished  his  fish.  He  rested  his  broad,  burnt 
hands  on  the  table  on  each  side  of  his  plate  and  looked  at  them 
steadily.  Then  he  turned  his  head  and  glanced  sideways  at  the 
priest,  who  was  behind  him  to  the  right.  Then  he  looked  again 
at  his  hands.  And  Domini  knew  that  all  the  time  he  was  think- 
ing about  her,  as  she  was  thinking  about  him.  She.  felt  the 
violence  of  his  thought  like  the  violence  of  a  hand  striking  her. 

The  Arab  waiter  brought  her  some  ragout  of  mutton  and 
peas,  and  she  looked  down  again  at  her  plate. 

As  she  left  the  room  after  dejeuner  the  priest  again  got  up 


PRELUDE  8 1 

and  bowed.  She  stopped  for  a  moment  to  speak  to  him.  All 
the  French  officers  surveyed  her  tall,  upright  figure  and  broad, 
athletic  shoulders  with  intent  admiration.  Domini  knew  it 
and  was  indifferent.  If  a  hundred  French  soldiers  had  been 
staring  at  her  critically  she  would  not  have  cared  at  all.  She 
was  not  a  shy  woman  and  was  in  nowise  uncomfortable  when 
many  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her.  So  she  stood  and  talked  a  little 
to  the  priest  about  Count  Anteoni  and  her  pleasure  in  his 
garden.  And  as  she  did  so,  feeling  her  present  calm  self-posses- 
sion, she  wondered  secretly  at  the  wholly  unnatural  turmoil — 
she  called  it  that,  exaggerating  her  feeling  because  it  was 
unusual — in  which  she  had  been  a  few  minutes  before  as  she 
sat  at  her  table. 

The  priest  spoke  well  of  Count  Anteoni. 

"  He  is  very  generous,"  he  said. 

Then  he  paused,  twisting  his  napkin,  and  added : 

"  But  I  never  have  any  real  intercourse  with  him,  Madame. 
I  believe  he  comes  here  in  search  of  solitude.  He  spends  days 
and  even  weeks  alone  shut  up  in  his  garden." 

"  Thinking,"  she  said. 

The  priest  looked  slightly  surprised. 

"  It  would  be  difficult  not  to  think,  Madame,  would  it  not?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  But  Count  Anteoni  thinks  rather  as  a  Bashi- 
Bazouk  fights,  I  fancy." 

She  heard  a  chair  creak  in  the  distance  and  glanced  over  her 
shoulder.  The  traveller  had  turned  sideways.  At  once  she 
bade  the  priest  good-bye  and  walked  away  and  out  through  the 
swing  door. 

All  the  afternoon  she  rested.  The  silence  was  profound. 
Beni-Mora  was  enjoying  a  siesta  in  the  heat.  Domini  revelled 
in  the  stillness.  The  fatigue  of  travel  had  quite  gone  from  her 
now  and  she  began  to  feel  strangely  at  home.  Suzanne  had 
arranged  photographs,  books,  flowers  in  the  little  salon,  had  put 
cushions  here  and  there,  and  thrown  pretty  coverings  over  the 
sofa  and  the  two  low  chairs.  The  room  had  an  air  of  cosiness, 
of  occupation.  It  was  a  room  one  could  sit  in  without  restless- 
ness, and  Domini  liked  its  simplicity,  its  bare  wooden  floor  and 
white  walls.  The  sun  made  everything  right  here.  Without 
the  sun — but  she  could  not  think  of  Beni-Mora  without  the  sun. 

She  read  on  the  verandah  and  dreamed,  and  the  hours  slipped 
quickly  away.  No  one  came  to  disturb  her.  She  heard  no 
footsteps,  no  movements  of  humanity  in  the  house.  Now  and 
then  the  sound  of  voices  floated  up  to  her  from  the  gardens, 


82  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

mingling  with  the  peculiar  dry  noise  of  palm  leaves  stirring  in 
a  breeze.  Or  she  heard  the  distant  gallop  of  horses'  feet.  The 
church  bell  chimed  the  hours  and  made  her  recall  the  previous 
evening.  Already  it  seemed  far  off  in  the  past.  She  could 
scarcely  believe  that  she  had  not  yet  spent  twenty-four  hours 
in  Beni-Mora.  A  conviction  came  to  her  that  she  would  be 
there  for  a  long  while,  that  she  would  strike  roots  into  this 
sunny  place  of  peace.  When  she  heard  the  church  bell  now 
she  thought  of  the  interior  of  the  church  and  of  the  priest  with 
an  odd  sort  of  familiar  pleasure,  as  people  in  England  often 
think  of  the  village  church  in  which  they  have  always  been 
accustomed  to  worship,  and  of  the  clergyman  who  ministers 
in  it  Sunday  after  Sunday.  Yet  at  moments  she  remembered 
her  inward  cry  in  Count  Anteoni's  garden,  "  Oh,  what  is  going 
to  happen  to  me  here  ?  "  And  then  she  was  dimly  conscious 
that  Beni-Mora  was  the  home  of  many  things  besides  peace. 
It  held  warring  influences.  At  one  moment  it  lulled  her  and 
she  was  like  an  infant  rocked  in  a  cradle.  At  another  moment 
it  stirred  her,  and  she  was  a  woman  on  the  edge  of  mysterious 
possibilities.  There  must  be  many  individualities  among  the 
desert  spirits  of  whom  Count  Anteoni  had  spoken.  Now  one 
was  with  her  and  whispered  to  her,  now  another.  She  fancied 
the  light  touch  of  their  hands  on  hers,  pulling  gently  at  her, 
as  a  child  pulls  you  to  take  you  to  see  a  treasure.  And  their 
treasure  was  surely  far  away,  hidden  in  the  distance  of  the 
desert  sands. 

As  soon  as  the  sun  began  to  decline  towards  the  west  she 
put  on  her  hat,  thrust  the  card  Count  Anteoni  had  given  her 
into  her  glove  and  set  out  towards  the  big  hotel  alone.  She 
met  Hadj  as  she  walked  down  the  arcade.  He  wished  to 
accompany  her,  and  was  evidently  filled  with  treacherous  ideas 
of  supplanting  his  friend  Batouch,  but  she  gave  him  a  franc  and 
sent  him  away.  The  franc  soothed  him  slightly,  yet  she  could 
see  that  his  childish  vanity  was  injured.  There  was  a  malicious 
gleam  in  his  long,  narrow  eyes  as  he  looked  after  her.  Yet  there 
was  genuine  admiration  too.  The  Arab  bows  down  instinctively 
before  any  dominating  spirit,  and  such  a  spirit  in  a  foreign 
woman  flashes  in  his  eyes  like  a  bright  flame.  Physical  strength, 
too,  appeals  to  him  with  peculiar  force.  Hadj  tossed  his  head 
upwards,  tucked  in  his  chin,  and  muttered  some  words  in  his 
brown  throat  as  he  noted  the  elastic  grace  with  which  the  reject- 
ing foreign  woman  moved  till  she  was  out  of  his  sight.  And  she 
never  looked  back  at  him.  That  was  a  keen  arrow  in  her 


PRELUDE  83 

quiver.  He  fell  into  a  deep  reverie  under  the  arcade  and  his 
face  became  suddenly  like  the  face  of  a  sphinx. 

Meanwhile  Domini  had  forgotten  him.  She  had  turned  to 
the  left  down  a  small  street  in  which  some  Indians  and  superior 
Arabs  had  bazaars.  One  of  the  latter  came  out  from  the 
shadow  of  his  hanging  rugs  and  embroideries  as  she  passed,  and, 
addressing  her  in  a  strange  mixture  of  incorrect  French  and 
English,  begged  her  to  come  in  and  examine  his  wares. 

She  shook  her  head,  but  could  not  help  looking  at  him  with 
interest. 

He  was  the  thinnest  man  she  had  ever  seen,  and  moved  and 
stood  almost  as  if  he  were  boneless.  The  line  of  his  delicate 
and  yet  arbitrary  features  was  fierce.  His  face  was  pitted  with 
small-pox  and  marked  by  an  old  wound,  evidently  made  by  a 
knife,  which  stretched  from  his  left  cheek  to  his  forehead,  end- 
ing just  over  the  left  eyebrow.  The  expression  of  his  eyes  was 
almost  disgustingly  intelligent.  While  they  were  fixed  upon 
her  Domini  felt  as  if  her  body  were  a  glass  box  in  which  all 
her  thoughts,  feelings,  and  desires  were  ranged  for  his  inspec- 
tion. In  his  demeanour  there  was  much  that  pleaded,  but  also 
something  that  commanded.  His  fingers  were  unnaturally 
long  and  held  a  small  bag,  and  he  planted  himself  right  before 
her  in  the  road. 

"Madame,  come  in,  venez  avec  moi.  Venez — venez!  I 
have  much — I  will  show — j'ai  des  choses  extraordinaires  I 
Tenez!  Look!" 

He  untied  the  mouth  of  the  bag.  Domini  looked  into  it, 
expecting  to  see  something  precious — jewels  perhaps.  She  saw 
only  a  quantity  of  sand,  laughed,  and  moved  to  go  on.  She 
thought  the  Arab  was  an  impudent  fellow  trying  to  make  fun 
of  her. 

"  No,  no,  Madame !  Do  not  laugh !  Ce  sable  est  du  desert. 
II  y  a  des  histoires  la-dedans.  II  y  a  1'histoire  de  Madame. 
Come  bazaar!  I  will  read  for  Madame — what  will  be — what 
will  become — I  will  read — I  will  tell.  Tenez !  "  He  stared 
down  into  the  bag  and  his  face  became  suddenly  stern  and  fixed. 
"  Deja  je  vois  des  choses  dans  la  vie  de  Madame.  Ah!  Mon 
Dieu!  Ah!  Mon  Dieu!" 

"  No,  no,"  Domini  said. 

She  had  hesitated,  but  was  now  determined. 

"  I  have  no  time  to-day." 

The  man  cast  a  quick  and  sly  glance  at  her,  then  stared  once 
more  into  the  bag. 


84  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

"Ah!  Mon  Dieu!  Ah!  Mon  Dieu!  "  he  repeated.  "The 
life  to  come — the  life  of  Madame — I  see  it  in  the  bag !  " 

His  face  looked  tortured.  Domini  walked  on  hurriedly. 
When  she  had  got  to  a  little  distance  she  glanced  back.  The 
man  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road  and  glaring  into  the 
bag.  His  voice  came  down  the  street  to  her. 

"Ah!  Mon  Dieu!  Ah!  Mon  Dieu!  I  see  it — I  see — je 
vois  la  vie  de  Madame — Ah !  Mon  Dieu !  " 

There  was  an  accent  of  dreadful  suffering  in  his  voice.  It 
made  Domini  shudder. 

She  passed  the  mouth  of  the  dancers'  street.  At  the  corner 
there  was  a  large  Cafe  Maure,  and  here,  on  rugs  laid  by  the 
side  of  the  road,  numbers  of  Arabs  were  stretched,  some 
sipping  tea  from  glasses,  some  playing  dominoes,  some  convers- 
ing, some  staring  calmly  into  vacancy,  like  animals  drowned 
in  a  lethargic  dream.  A  black  boy  ran  by  holding  a  hammered 
brass  tray  on  which  were  some  small  china  cups  filled  with  thick 
coffee.  Halfway  up  the  street  he  met  three  unveiled  women 
clad  in  voluminous  white  dresses,  with  scarlet,  yellow,  and 
purple  handkerchiefs  bound  over  their  black  hair.  He  stopped 
and  the  women  took  the  cups  with  their  henna-tinted  fingers. 
Two  young  Arabs  joined  them.  There  was  a  scuffle.  White 
lumps  of  sugar  flew  up  into  the  air.  Then  there  was  a  babel 
of  voices,  a  torrent  of  cries  full  of  barbaric  gaiety. 

Before  it  had  died  out  of  Domini's  ears  she  stood  by  the 
statue  of  Cardinal  Lavigerie.  Rather  militant  than  priestly, 
raised  high  on  a  marble  pedestal,  it  faced  the  long  road  which, 
melting  at  last  into  a  faint  desert  track,  stretched  away  to 
Tombouctou.  The  mitre  upon  the  head  was  worn  surely  as 
if  it  were  a  helmet,  the  pastoral  staff  with  its  double  cross  was 
grasped  as  if  it  were  a  sword.  Upon  the  lower  cross  was 
stretched  a  figure  of  the  Christ  in  agony.  And  the  Cardinal, 
gazing  with  the  eyes  of  an  eagle  out  into  the  pathless  wastes 
of  sand  that  lay  beyond  the  palm  trees,  seemed,  by  his  mere 
attitude,  to  cry  to  all  the  myriad  hordes  of  men  the  deep- 
bosomed  Sahara  mothered  in  her  mystery  and  silence,  "  Come 
unto  the  Church!  Come  unto  me!  " 

He  called  men  in  from  the  desert.  Domini  fancied  his  voice 
echoing  along  the  sands  till  the  worshippers  of  Allah  and  of  his 
Prophet  heard  it  like  a  clarion  in  Tombouctou. . 

When  she  reached  the  great  hotel  the  sun  was  just  beginning 
to  set.  She  drew  Count  Anteoni's  card  from  her  glove  and 
rang  the  bell.  After  a  long  interval  a  magnificent  man,  with 


PRELUDE  85 

the  features  of  an  Arab  but  a  skin  almost  as  black  as  a  negro, 
opened  the  door. 

"Can  I  go  up  the  tower  to  see  the  sunset?"  she  asked, 
giving  him  the  card. 

The  man  bowed  low,  escorted  her  through  a  long  hall  full 
of  furniture  shrouded  in  coverings,  up  a  staircase,  along  a 
corridor  with  numbered  rooms,  up  a  second  staircase  and  out 
upon  a  flat-terraced  roof,  from  which  the  tower  soared  high 
above  the  houses  and  palms  of  Beni-Mora,  a  landmark  visible 
half-a-day's  journey  out  in  the  desert.  A  narrow  spiral  stair 
inside  the  tower  gained  the  summit. 

"  I'll  go  up  alone,"  Domini  said.  "  I  shall  stay  some  time 
and  I  would  rather  not  keep  you." 

She  put  some  money  into  the  Arab's  hand.  He  looked 
pleased,  yet  doubtful  too  for  a  moment.  Then  he  seemed 
to  banish  his  hesitation  and,  with  a  deprecating  smile,  said 
something  which  she  could  not  understand.  She  nodded  in- 
telligently to  get  rid  of  him.  Already,  from  the  roof,  she 
caught  sight  of  a  great  visionary  panorama  glowing  with  colour 
and  magic.  She  was  impatient  to  climb  still  higher  into  the 
sky,  to  look  down  on  the  world  as  an  eagle  does.  So  she 
turned  away  decisively  and  mounted  the  dark,  winding  stair 
till  she  reached  a  door.  She  pushed  it  open  with  some  difficulty, 
and  came  out  into  the  air  at  a  dizzy  height,  shutting  the  door 
forcibly  behind  her  with  an  energetic  movement  of  her  strong 
arms. 

The  top  of  the  tower  was  small  and  square,  and  guarded  by 
a  white  parapet  breast  high.  In  the  centre  of  it  rose  the  outer 
walls  and  the  ceiling  of  the  top  of  the  staircase,  which  pre- 
vented a  person  standing  on  one  side  of  the  tower  from  seeing 
anybody  who  was  standing  at  the  opposite  side.  There  was  just 
sufficient  space  between  parapet  and  staircase  wall  for  two 
people  to  pass  with  difficulty  and  manoeuvring. 

But  Domini  was  not  concerned  with  such  trivial  details,  as 
she  would  have  thought  them  had  she  thought  of  them. 
Directly  she  had  shut  the  little  door  and  felt  herself  alone — 
alone  as  an  eagle  in  the  sky — she  took  the  step  forward  that 
brought  her  to  the  parapet,  leaned  her  arms  on  it,  looked  out 
and  was  lost  in  a  passion  of  contemplation. 

At  first  she  did  not  discern  any  of  the  multitudinous 
minutiae  in  the  great  evening  vision  beneath  and  around  her. 
She  only  felt  conscious  of  depth,  height,  space,  colour,  mystery, 
calm.  She  did  not  measure.  She  did  not  differentiate.  She 


86  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

simply  stood  there,  leaning  lightly  on  the  snowy  plaster  work, 
and  experienced  something  that  she  had  never  experienced 
before,  that  she  had  never  imagined.  It  was  scarcely  vivid; 
for  in  everything  that  is  vivid  there  seems  to  be  something 
small,  the  point  to  which  wonders  converge,  the  intense  spark 
to  which  many  fires,  have  given  themselves  as  food,  the  drop 
which  contains  the  murmuring  force  of  innumerable  rivers.  It 
was  more  than  vivid.  It  was  reliantly  dim,  as  is  that  pulse  of 
life  which  is  heard  through  and  above  the  crash  of  generations 
and  centuries  falling  downwards  into  the  abyss;  that  persistent, 
enduring  heart-beat,  indifferent  in  its  mystical  regularity,  that 
ignores  and  triumphs,  and  never  grows  louder  nor  diminishes, 
inexorably  calm,  inexorably  steady,  undefeated — more — utterly 
unaffected  by  unnumbered  millions  of  tragedies  and  deaths. 

Many  sounds  rose  from  far  down  beneath  the  tower,  but  at 
first  Domini  did  not  hear  them.  She  was  only  aware  of  an 
immense,  living  silence,  a  silence  flowing  beneath,  around  and 
above  her  in  dumb,  invisible  waves.  Circles  of  rest  and  peace, 
cool  and  serene,  widened  as  circles  in  a  pool  towards  the  unseen 
limits  of  the  satisfied  world,  limits  lost  in  the  hidden  regions 
beyond  the  misty,  purple  magic  where  sky  and  desert  met. 
And  she  felt  as  if  her  brain,  ceaselessly  at  work  from  its  birth, 
her  heart,  unresting  hitherto  in  a  commotion  of  desires,  her 
soul,  an  eternal  flutter  of  anxious,  passionate  wings,  folded 
themselves  together  gently  like  the  petals  of  roses  when  a  sum- 
mer night  comes  into  a  garden. 

She  was  not  conscious  that  she  breathed  while  she  stood 
there.  She  thought  her  bosom  ceased  to  rise  and  fall.  The 
very  blood  dreamed  in  her  veins  as  the  light  of  evening  dreamed 
in  the  blue. 

She  knew  the  Great  Pause  that  seems  to  divide  some  human 
lives  in  two,  as  the  Great  Gulf  divided  him  who  lay  in 
Abraham's  bosom  from  him  who  was  shrouded  in  the  veil  of  fire. 


BOOK  II 

THE    VOICE    OF    PRAYER 
CHAPTER   VII 


i 


music  of  things  from  below  stole  up  through 
the  ethereal  spaces  to  Domini  without  piercing 
her  dream.  But  suddenly  she  started  with  a 
sense  of  pain  so  acute  that  it  shook  her  body  and 
set  the  pulses  in  her  temples  beating.  She  lifted 
her  arms  swiftly  from  the  parapet  and  turned  her  head.  She 
had  heard  a  little  grating  noise  which  seemed  to  be  near  to 
her,  enclosed  with  her  on  this  height  in  the  narrow  space  of  the 
tower.  Slight  as  it  was,  and  short — already  she  no  longer  heard 
it — it  had  in  an  instant  driven  her  out  of  Heaven,  as  if  it  had 
been  an  angel  with  a  flaming  sword.  She  felt  sure  that  there 
must  be  something  alive  with  her  at  the  tower  summit,  some- 
thing which  by  a  sudden  movement  had  caused  the  little  noise 
she  had  heard.  What  was  it?  When  she  turned  her  head  she 
could  only  see  the  outer  wall  of  the  staircase,  a  section  of  the 
narrow  white  space  which  surrounded  it,  an  angle  of  the  para- 
pet and  blue  air. 

She  listened,  holding  her  breath  and  closing  her  two  hands 
on  the  parapet,  which  was  warm  from  the  sun.  Now,  caught 
back  to  reality,  she  could  hear  faintly  the  sounds  from  below  in 
Beni-Mora.  But  they  did  not  concern  her,  and  she  wished  to 
shut  them  out  from  her  ears.  What  did  concern  her  was  to 
know  what  was  with  her  up  in  the  sky.  Had  a  bird  alighted 
on  the  parapet  and  startled  her  by  scratching  at  the  plaster 
with  its  beak?  Could  a  mouse  have  shuffled  in  the  wall?  Or 
was  there  a  human  being  up  there  hidden  from  her  by  the 
masonry  ? 

This  last  supposition  disturbed  her  almost  absurdly  for  a 
moment.  She  was  inclined  to  walk  quickly  round  to  the 
opposite  side  of  the  tower,  but  something  stronger  than  her 
inclination,  an  imperious  shyness,  held  her  motionless.  She  had 
been  carried  so  far  away  from  the  world  that  she  felt  unable  to 

87 


88  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

face  the  scrutiny  of  any  world-bound  creature.  Having  been  in 
the  transparent  region  of  magic  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  her  secret, 
the  great  secret  of  the  absolutely  true,  the  naked  personality 
hidden  in  every  human  being,  were  set  blazing  in  her  eyes  like 
some  torch  borne  in  a  procession,  just  for  that  moment.  The 
moment  past,  she  could  look  anyone  fearlessly  in  the  face;  but 
not  now,  not  yet. 

While  she  stood  there,  half  turning  round,  she  heard  the 
sound  again  and  knew  what  caused  it.  A  foot  had  shifted  on 
the  plaster  floor.  There  was  someone  else  then  looking  out  over 
the  desert.  A  sudden  idea  struck  her.  Probably  it  was  Count 
Anteoni.  He  knew  she  was  coming  and  might  have  decided  to 
act  once  more  as  her  cicerone.  He  had  not  heard  her  climbing 
the  stairs,  and,  having  gone  to  the  far  side  of  the  tower,  was  no 
doubt  watching  the  sunset,  lost  in  a  dream  as  she  had  been. 

She  resolved  not  to  disturb  him — if  it  was  he.  When  he  had 
dreamed  enough  he  must  inevitably  come  round  to  where  she 
was  standing  in  order  to  gain  the  staircase.  She  would  let  him 
find  her  there.  Less  troubled  now,  but  in  an  utterly  changed- 
mood,  she  turned,  leaned  once  more  on  the  parapet  and  looked 
over,  this  time  observantly,  prepared  to  note  the  details  that, 
combined  and  veiled  in  the  evening  light  of  Africa,  made  the 
magic  which  had  so  instantly  entranced  her. 

She  looked  down  into  the  village  and  could  see  its  extent, 
precisely  how  it  was  placed  in  the  Sahara,  in  what  relation 
exactly  it  stood  to  the  mountain  ranges,  to  the  palm  groves  and 
the  arid,  sunburnt  tracts,  where  its  life  centred  and  where  it 
tailed  away  into  suburban  edges  not  unlike  the  ragged  edges 
of  worn  garments,  where  it  was  idle  and  frivolous,  where  busy 
and  sedulous.  She  realised  for  the  first  time  that  there  were 
two  distinct  layers  of  life  in  Beni-Mora — the  life  of  the  streets, 
courts,  gardens  and  market-place,  and  above  it  the  life  of  the 
roofs.  Both  were  now  spread  out  before  her,  and  the  latter,  in 
its  domestic  intimacy,  interested  and  charmed  her.  She  saw 
upon  the  roofs  the  children  playing  with  little  dogs,  goats,  fowls, 
mothers  in  rags  of  gaudy  colours  stirring  the  barley  for  cous- 
cous, shredding  vegetables,  pounding  coffee,  stewing  meat, 
plucking  chickens,  bending  over  bowls  from  which  rose  the  steam 
of  soup;  small  girls,  seated  in  dusty  corners,  solemnly  winding 
wool  on  sticks,  and  pausing,  now  and  then,  to  squeak  to  distant 
members  of  the  home  circle,  or  to  smell  at  flowers  laid  beside 
them  as  solace  to  their  industry.  An  old  grandmother  rocked 
and  kissed  a  naked  baby  with  a  pot  belly.  A  big  grey  rat  stole 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  89 

from  a  rubbish  heap  close  by  her,  flitted  across  the  sunlit  space, 
and  disappeared  into  a  cranny.  Pigeons  circled  above  the  home 
activities,  delicate  lovers  of  the  air,  wandered  among  the  palm 
tops,  returned  and  fearlessly  alighted  on  the  brown  earth  para- 
pets, strutting  hither  and  thither  and  making  their  perpetual, 
characteristic  motion  of  the  head,  half  nod,  half  genuflection. 
Veiled  girls  promenaded  to  take  the  evening  cool,  folding  their 
arms  beneath  their  flowing  draperies,  and  chattering  to  one 
another  in  voices  that  Domini  could  not  hear.  More  close  at 
hand  certain  roofs  in  the  dancers'  street  revealed  luxurious  sofas 
on  which  painted  houris  were  lolling  in  sinuous  attitudes,  or 
were  posed  with  a  stiffness  of  idols,  little  tables  set  with  coffee 
cups,  others  round  which  were  gathered  Zouaves  intent  on  card 
games,  but  ever  ready  to  pause  for  a  caress  or  for  some  jesting 
absurdity  with  the  women  who  squatted  beside  them.  Some 
men,  dressed  like  girls,  went  to  and  fro,  serving  the  dancers 
with  sweetmeats  and  with  cigarettes,  their  beards  flowing  down 
with  a  grotesque  effect  over  their  dresses  of  embroidered  muslin, 
their  hairy  arms  emerging  from  hanging  sleeves  of  silk.  A 
negro  boy  sat  holding  a  tom-tom  between  his  bare  knees  and 
beating  it  with  supple  hands,  and  a  Jewess  performed  the 
stomach  dance,  waving  two  handkerchiefs  stained  red  and  purple, 
and  singing  in  a  loud  and  barbarous  contralto  voice  which 
Domini  could  hear  but  very  faintly.  The  card-players  stopped 
their  game  and  watched  her,  and  Domini  watched  too.  For 
the  first  time,  and  from  this  immense  height,  she  saw  this 
universal  dance  of  the  east;  the  doll-like  figure,  fantastically 
dwarfed,  waving  its  tiny  hands,  wriggling  its  minute  body, 
turning  about  like  a  little  top,  strutting  and  bending,  while  the 
soldiers — small  almost  from  here  as  toys  taken  out  of  a  box — 
assumed  attitudes  of  deep  attention  as  they  leaned  upon  the  card- 
table,  stretching  out  their  legs  enveloped  in  balloon-like 
trousers. 

Domini  thought  of  the  recruits,  now,  no  doubt,  undergoing 
elsewhere  their  initiation.  For  a  moment  she  seemed  to  see 
their  coarse  peasant  faces  rigid  with  surprise,  their  hanging  jaws, 
their  childish,  and  yet  sensual,  round  eyes.  Notre  Dame  de  la 
Garde  must  seem  very  far  away  from  them  now. 

With  that  thought  she  looked  quickly  away  from  the  Jewess 
and  the  soldiers.  She  felt  a  sudden  need  of  something  more 
nearly  in  relation  with  her  inner  self.  She  was  almost  angry  as 
she  realised  how  deep  had  been  her  momentary  interest  in  a 
scene  suggestive  of  a  license  which  was  surely  unattractive  to 


90  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

her.  Yet  was  it  unattractive?  She  scarcely  knew.  But  she 
knew  that  it  had  kindled  in  her  a  sudden  and  very  strong 
curiosity,  even  a  vague,  momentary  desire  that  she  had  been 
born  in  some  tent  of  the  Ouled  Nails — no,  that  was  impossible. 
She  had  not  felt  such  a  desire  even  for  an  instant.  She  looked 
towards  the  thickets  of  the  palms,  towards  the  mountains  full  of 
changing,  exquisite  colours,  towards  the  desert.  And  at  once 
the  dream  began  to  return,  and  ,she  felt  as  if  hands  slipped  under 
her  heart  and  uplifted  it. 

What  depths  and  heights  were  within  her,  what  deep,  dark 
valleys,  and  what  mountain  peaks!  And  how  she  travelled 
within  herself,  with  swiftness  of  light,  with  speed  of  the  wind. 
What  terrors  of  activity  she  knew.  Did  every  human  being 
know  similar  terrors? 

The  colours  everywhere  deepened  as  day  failed.  The  desert 
spirits  were  at  work.  She  thought  of  Count  Anteoni  again',  and 
resolved  to  go  round  to  the  other  side  of  the  tower.  As  she 
moved  to  do  this  she  heard  once  more  the  shifting  of  a  foot  on 
the  plaster  floor,  then  a  step.  Evidently  she  had  infected  him 
with  an  intention  similar  to  her  own.  She  went  on,  still  hearing 
the  step,  turned  the  corner  and  stood  face  to  face  in  the  strong 
evening  light  with  the  traveller.  Their  bodies  almost  touched 
in  the  narrow  space  before  they  both  stopped,  startled.  For  a 
moment  they  stood  still  looking  at  each  other,  as  people  might 
look  who  have  spoken  together,  who  know  something  of  each 
other's  lives,  who  may  like  or  dislike,  wish  to  avoid  or  to  draw 
near  to  each  other,  but  who  cannot  pretend  that  they  are 
complete  strangers,  wholly  indifferent  to  each  other.  They  met 
in  the  sky,  almost  as  one  bird  may  meet  another  on  the  wing. 
And,  to  Domini,  at  any  rate,  it  seemed  as  if  the  depth,  height, 
space,  colour,  mystery  and  calm — yes,  even  the  calm — which 
were  above,  around  and  beneath  them,  had  been  placed  there 
by  hidden  hands  as  a  setting  for  their  encounter,  even  as  the 
abrupt  pageant  of  the  previous  day,  into  which  the  train  had 
emerged  from  the  blackness  of  the  tunnel,  had  surely  been 
created  as  a  frame  for  the  face  which  had  looked  upon  her  as 
if  out  of  the  heart  of  the  sun.  The  assumption  was  absurd,  un- 
reasonable, yet  vital.  She  did  not  combat  it  because  she  felt  it 
too  powerful  for  common  sense  to  strive  against.  And  it  seemed 
to  her  that  the  stranger  felt  it  too,  that  she  saw  her  sensation 
reflected  in  his  eyes  as  he  stood  between  the  parapet  and  the 
staircase  wall,  barring — in  despite  of  himself — her  path.  The 
moment  seemed  long  while  they  stood  motionless.  Then  the 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  91 

man  took  off  his  soft  hat  awkwardly,  yet  with  real  politeness, 
and  stood  quickly  sideways  against  the  parapet  to  let  her  pass. 
She  could  have  passed  if  she  had  brushed  against  him,  and  made 
a  movement  to  do  so.  Then  she  checked  herself  and  looked  at 
him  again  as  if  she  expected  him  to  speak  to  her.  His  hat  was 
still  in  his  hand,  and  the  light  desert  wind  faintly  stirred  his 
short  brown  hair.  He  did  not  speak,  but  stood  there  crushing 
himself  against  the  plaster  work  with  a  sort  of  fierce  timidity,  as 
if  he  dreaded  the  touch  of  her  skirt  against  him,  and  longed 
to  make  himself  small,  to  shrivel  up  and  let  her  go  by  in 
freedom. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  in  French. 

She  passed  him,  but  was  unable  to  do  so  without  touching 
him.  Her  left  arm  was  hanging  down,  and  her  bare  hand 
knocked  against  the  back  of  the  hand  in  which  he  held  his  hat. 
She  felt  as  if  at  that  moment  she  touched  a  furnace,  and  she  saw 
him  shiver  slightly,  as  over-fatigued  men  sometimes  shiver  in 
daylight.  An  extraordinary,  almost  motherly,  sensation  of  pity 
for  him  came  over  her.  She  did  not  know  why.  The  intense 
heat  of  his  hand,  the  shiver  that  ran  over  his  body,  his  attitude 
as  he  shrank  with  a  kind  of  timid,  yet  ferocious,  politeness 
against  the  white  wall,  the  expression  in  his  eyes  when  their 
hands  touched — a  look  she  could  not  analyse,  but  which  seemed 
to  hold  a  mingling  of  wistfulness  and  repellance,  as  of  a  being 
stretching  out  arms  for  succour,  and  crying  at  the  same  time, 
"  Don't  draw  near  to  me !  Leave  me  to  myself !  " — everything 
about  him  moved  her.  She  felt  that  she  was  face  to  face  with  a 
solitariness  of  soul  such  as  she  had  never  encountered  before,  a 
solitariness  that  was  cruel,  that  was  weighed  down  with  agony. 
And  directly  she  had  passed  the  man  and  thanked  him  formally 
she  stopped  with  her  usual  decision  of  manner.  She  had  abruptly 
made  up  her  mind  to  talk  to  him.  He  was  already  moving  to 
turn  away.  She  spoke  quickly,  and  in  French. 

"  Isn't  it  wonderful  here?  "  she  said;  and  she  made  her  voice 
rather  loud,  and  almost  sharp,  to  arrest  his  attention. 

He  turned  round  swiftly,  yet  somehow  reluctantly,  looked  at 
her  anxiously,  and  seemed  doubtful  whether  he  would  reply. 

After  a  silence  that  was  short,  but  that  seemed,  and  in  such 
circumstances  was,  long,  he  answered,  in  French : 

"  Very  wonderful,  Madame." 

The  sound  of  his  own  voice  seemed  to  startle  him.  He  stood 
as  if  he  had  heard  an  unusual  noise  which  had  alarmed  him, 
and  looked  at  Domini  as  if  he  expected  that  she  would  share  in 


92  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

.. 

his  sensation.     Very  quietly  and  deliberately    she  leaned   her 
arms  again  on  the  parapet  and  spoke  to-  him  once  more. 

"  We  seem  to  be  the  only  travellers  here." 

The  man's  attitude  became  slightly  calmer.  He  looked  less 
momentary,  less  as  if  he  were  in  haste  to  go,  but  still  shy,  fierce 
and  extraordinarily  unconventional. 

"  Yes,  Madame ;  there  are  not  many  here." 

After  a  pause,  and  with  an  uncertain  accent,  he  added: 

"  Pardon,  Madame — for  yesterday." 

There  was  a  sudden  simplicity,  almost  like  that  of  a  child,  in 
the  sound  of  his  voice  as  he  said  that.  Domini  knew  at  once 
that  he  alluded  to  the  incident  at  the  station  of  El-Akbara,  that 
he  was  trying  to  make  amends.  The  way  he  did  it  touched  her 
curiously.  She  felt  inclined  to  stretch  out  her  hand  to  him  and 
say,  "Of  course!  Shake  hands  on  it!"  almost  as  an  honest 
schoolboy  might.  But  she  only  answered: 

"  I  know  it  was  only  an  accident.  Don't  think  of  it  any 
more." 

She  did  not  look  at  him. 

"  Where  money  is  concerned  the  Arabs  are  very  persistent," 
she  continued. 

The  man  laid  one  of  his  brown  hands  on  the  top  of  the 
parapet.  She  looked  at  it,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had 
never  before  seen  the  back  of  a  hand  express  so  much  of  char- 
acter, look  so  intense,  so  ardent,  and  so  melancholy  as  his. 

"  Yes,  Madame.;' 

He  still  spoke  with  an  odd  timidity,  with  an  air  of  listening 
to  his  own  speech  as  if  in  some  strange  way  it  were  phenomenal 
to  him.  It  occurred  to  her  that  possibly  he  had  lived  much  in 
lonely  places,  in  which  his  solitude  had  rarely  been  broken,  and 
he  had  been  forced  to  acquire  the  habit  of  silence. 

"  But  they  are  very  picturesque.  They  look  almost  like  some 
religious  order  when  they  wear  their  hoods.  Don't  you  think 
so?" 

She  saw  the  brown  hand  lifted  from  the  parapet,  and  heard 
her  companion's  feet  shift  on  the  floor  of  the  tower.  But  this 
time  he  said  nothing.  As  she  could  not  see  his  hand  now  she 
looked  out  again  over  the  panorama  of  the  evening,  which  was 
deepening  in  intensity  with  every  passing  moment,  and  imme- 
diately she  was  conscious  of  two  feelings  that  filled  her  with 
wonder :  a  much  stronger  and  sweeter  sense  of  the  African  magic 
than  she  had  felt  till  now,  and  the  certainty  that  the  greater 
force  and  sweetness  of  her  feeling  were  caused  by  the  fact  that 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  93 

she  had  a  companion  in  her  contemplation.  This  was  strange. 
An  intense  desire  for  loneliness  had  driven  her  out  of  Europe 
to  this  desert  place,  and  a  companion,  who  was  an  utter  stranger, 
emphasised  the  significance,  gave  fibre  to  the  beauty,  intensity 
to  the  mystery  of  that  which  she  looked  on.  It  was  as  if  the 
meaning  of  the  African  evening  were  suddenly  doubled.  She 
thought  of  a  dice-thrower  who  throws  one  die  and  turns  up  six, 
then  throws  two  and  turns  up  twelve.  And  she  remained  silent 
in  her  surprise.  The  man  stood  silently  beside  her.  Afterwards 
she  felt  as  if,  during  this  silence  in  the  tower,  some  powerful  and 
unseen  being  had  arrived  mysteriously,  introduced  them  to  one 
another  and  mysteriously  departed. 

The  evening  drew  on  in  their  silence  and  the  dream  was 
deeper  now.  All  that  Domini  had  felt  when  first  she  approached 
the  parapet  she  felt  more  strangely,  and  she  grasped,  with  physi- 
cal and  mental  vision,  not  only  the  whole,  but  the  innumerable 
parts  of  that  which  she  looked  on.  She  saw,  fancifully,  the  circles 
widen  in  the  pool  of  peace,  but  she  saw  also  the  things  that  had 
been  hidden  in  the  pool.  The  beauty  of  dimness,  the  beauty 
of  clearness,  joined  hands.  The  one  and  the  other  were,  with 
her,  like  sisters.  She  heard  the  voices  from  below,  and  surely 
also  the  voices  of  the  stars  that  were  approaching  with  the  night, 
blending  harmoniously  and  making  a  music  in  the  air.  The 
glowing  sky  and  the  glowing  mountains  were  as  comrades,  each 
responsive  to  the  emotions  of  the  other.  The  lights  in  the  rocky 
clefts  had  messages  for  the  shadowy  moon,  and  the  palm  trees 
for  the  thin,  fire-tipped  clouds  about  the  west.  Far  off  the  misty 
purple  of  the  desert  drew  surely  closer,  like  a  mother  coming  to 
fold  her  children  in  her  arms. 

The  Jewess  still  danced  upon  the  roof  to  the  watching 
Zouaves,  but  now  there  was  something  mystic  in  her  tiny  move- 
ments, which  no  longer  roused  in  Domini  any  furtive  desire  not 
really  inherent  in  her  nature.  There  was  something  beautiful 
in  everything  seen  from  this  altitude  in  this  wondrous  evening 
light. 

Presently,  without  turning  to  her  companion,  she  said: 

"  Could  anything  look  ugly  in  Beni-Mora  from  here  at  this 
hour,  do  you  think  ?  " 

Again  there  was  the  silence  that  seemed  characteristic  of  this 
man  before  he  spoke,  as  if  speech  were  very  difficult  to  him. 

"  I  believe  not,  Madame." 

"  Even  that  woman  down  there  on  that  roof  looks  graceful — • 
the  one  dancing  for  those  soldiers." 


94  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

He  did  not  answer.    She  glanced  at  him  and  pointed. 

"  Down  there,  do  you  see?  " 

She  noticed  that  he  did  not  follow  her  hand  and  that  his 
face  became  stern.  He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  trees  of  the 
garden  of  the  Gazelles  near  Cardinal  Lavigerie's  statue  and 
replied : 

"Yes,  Madame." 

His  manner  made  her  think  that  perhaps  he  had  seen  the 
dance  at  close  quarters  and  that  it  was  outrageous.  For  a 
moment  she  felt  slightly  uncomfortable,  but  determined  not 
to  let  him  remain  under  a  false  impression,  she  added  care- 
lessly : 

"  I  have  never  seen  the  dances  of  Africa.  I  daresay  I  should 
think  them  ugly  enough  if  I  were  near,  but  from  this  height 
everything  is  transformed." 

'  That  is  true,  Madame." 

There  was  an  odd,  muttering  sound  in  his  voice,  which  was 
deep,  and  probably  strong,  but  which  he  kept  low.  Domini 
thought  it  was  the  most  male  voice  she  had  ever  heard.  It 
seemed  to  be  full  of  sex,  like  his  hands.  Yet  there  was  nothing 
coarse  in  either  the  one  or  the  other.  Everything  about  him  was 
vital  to  a  point  that  was  so  remarkable  as  to  be  not  actually 
unnatural  but  very  near  the  unnatural. 

She  glanced  at  him  again.  He  was  a  big  man,  but  very  thin. 
Her  experienced  eyes  of  an  athletic  woman  told  her  that  he  wras 
capable  of  great  and  prolonged  muscular  exertion.  He  was  big- 
boned  and  deep-chested,  and  had  nervous  as  well  as  muscular 
strength.  The  timidity  in  him  was  strange  in  such  a  man. 
What  could  it  spring  from?  It  was  not  like  ordinary  shyness, 
the  gaucherie  of  a  big,  awkward  lout  unaccustomed  to  woman's 
society  but  able  to  be  at  his  ease  and  boisterous  in  the  midst  of  a 
crowd  of  men.  Domini  thought  that  he  would  be  timid  even 
of  men.  Yet  it  never  struck  her  that  he  might  be  a  coward, 
unmanly.  Such  a  quality  would  have  sickened  her  at  once,  and 
she  knew  she  would  have  at  onee  divined  it.  He  did  not  hold 
himself  very  well,  but  was  inclined  to  stoop  and  to  keep  his 
head  low,  as  if  he  were  in  the  habit  of  looking  much  on  the 
ground.  The  idiosyncrasy  was  rather  ugly,  and  suggested  melan- 
choly to  her,  the  melancholy  of  a  man  given  to  over-much 
meditation  and  afraid  to  face  the  radiant  wonder  of  life. 

She  caught  herself  up  at  this  last  thought.  She — thinking 
naturally  that  life  was  full  of  radiant  wonder !  Was  she  then 
so  utterly  transformed  already  by  Beni-Mora?  Or  had  the 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  95 

thought  come  to  her  because  she  stood  side  by  side  with 
someone  whose  sorrows  had  been  unfathomably  deeper  than  her 
own,  and  so  who,  all  unconsciously,  gave  her  a  knowledge  of 
her  own — till  then  unsuspected — hopefulness  ? 

She  looked  at  her  companion  again.  He  seemed  to  have 
relinquished  his  intention  of  leaving  her,  and  was  standing 
quietly  beside  her,  staring  towards  the  desert,  with  his  head 
slightly  drooped  forward.  In  one  hand  he  held  a  thick  stick. 
He  had  put  his  hat  on  again.  His  attitude  was  much  calmer 
than  it  had  been.  Already  he  seemed  more  at  ease  with  her. 
She  was  glad  of  that.  She  did  not  ask  herself  why.  But  the 
intense  beauty  of  evening  in  this  land  and  at  this  height  made  her 
wish  enthusiastically  that  it  could  produce  a  happiness  such  as 
it  created  in  her  in  everyone.  Such  beauty,  with  its  voices,  its 
colours,  its  lines  of  tree  and  leaf,  of  wall  and  mountain  ridge, 
its  mystery  of  shapes  and  movements,  stillness  and  dreaming  dis- 
tance, its  atmosphere  of  the  far  off  come  near,  chastened  by 
journeying,  fine  with  the  unfamiliar,  its  solemn  changes  towards 
the  impenetrable  night,  was  too  large  a  thing  and  fraught  with 
too  much  tender  and  lovable  invention  to  be  worshipped  in  any 
selfishness.  It  made  her  feel  as  if  she  could  gladly  be  a  martyr 
for  unseen  human  beings,  as  if  sacrifice  would  be  an  easy  thing 
if  made  for  those  to  whom  such  beauty  would  appeal.  Brother- 
hood rose  up  and  cried  in  her,  as  it  surely  sang  in  the  sunset, 
in  the  mountains,  the  palm  groves  and  the  desert.  The  flame 
above  the  hills,  their  purple  outline,  the  moving,  feathery  trees, 
dark  under  the  rose-coloured  glory  of  the  west,  and  most  of 
all  the  immeasurably  remote  horizons,  each  moment  more  strange 
and  more  eternal,  made  her  long  to  make  this  harsh  stranger 
happy. 

"  One  ought  to  find  happiness  here,"  she  said  to  him  very 
simply. 

She  saw  his  hand  strain  itself  round  the  wood  of  his  stick. 

"Why?"  he  said. 

He  turned  right  round  to  her  and  looked  at  her  with  a  sort 
of  anger. 

"Why  should  you  suppose  so?"  he  added,  speaking  quite 
quickly,  and  without  his  former  uneasiness  and  consciousness. 

"  Because  it  is  so  beautiful  and  so  calm." 

"Calm!"  he  said.    "Here!" 

There  was  a  sound  of  passionate  surprise  in  his  voice.  Domini 
was  startled.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  fighting,  and  must  fight 
hard  if  she  were  not  to  be  beaten  to  the  dust.  But  when  she 


94  THE   GARDEN   OF   ALLAH 

He  did  not  answer.    She  glanced  at  him  and  pointed. 

"  Down  there,  do  you  see?  " 

She  noticed  that  he  did  not  follow  her  hand  and  that  his 
face  became  stern.  He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  trees  of  the 
garden  of  the  Gazelles  near  Cardinal  Lavigerie's  statue  and 
replied : 

"Yes,  Madame." 

His  manner  made  her  think  that  perhaps  he  had  seen  the 
dance  at  close  quarters  and  that  it  was  outrageous.  For  a 
moment  she  felt  slightly  uncomfortable,  but  determined  not 
to  let  him  remain  under  a  false  impression,  she  added  care- 
lessly : 

"  I  have  never  seen  the  dances  of  Africa.    I  daresay  I  should 
think  them  ugly  enough  if  I  were  near,  but  from  this  height 
everything  is  transformed." 
1  That  is  true,  Madame." 

There  was  an  odd,  muttering  sound  in  his  voice,  which  was 
deep,  and  probably  strong,  but  which  he  kept  low.  Domini 
thought  it  was  the  most  male  voice  she  had  ever  heard.  It 
seemed  to  be  full  of  sex,  like  his  hands.  Yet  there  was  nothing 
coarse  in  either  the  one  or  the  other.  Everything  about  him  was 
vital  to  a  point  that  was  so  remarkable  as  to  be  not  actually 
unnatural  but  very  near  the  unnatural. 

She  glanced  at  him  again.  He  was  a  big  man,  but  very  thin. 
Her  experienced  eyes  of  an  athletic  woman  told  her  that  he  was 
capable  of  great  and  prolonged  muscular  exertion.  He  was  big- 
boned  and  deep-chested,  and  had  nervous  as  well  as  muscular 
strength.  The  timidity  in  him  was  strange  in  such  a  man. 
What  could  it  spring  from?  It  was  not  like  ordinary  shyness, 
the  gaucherie  of  a  big,  awkward  lout  unaccustomed  to  woman's 
society  but  able  to  be  at  his  ease  and  boisterous  in  the  mids*  of  a 
crowd  of  men.  Domini  thought  that  he  would  be  timid  even 
of  men.  Yet  it  never  struck  her  that  he  might  be  a  coward, 
unmanly.  Such  a  quality  would  have  sickened  her  at  once,  and 
she  knew  she  would  have  at  onee  divined  it.  He  did  not  hold 
himself  very  well,  but  was  inclined  to  stoop  and  to  keep  his 
head  low,  as  if  he  were  in  the  habit  of  looking  much  on  the 
ground.  The  idiosyncrasy  was  rather  ugly,  and  suggested  melan- 
choly to  her,  the  melancholy  of  a  man  given  to  over-much 
meditation  and  afraid  to  face  the  radiant  wonder  of  life. 

She  caught  herself  up  at  this  last  thought.  She — thinking 
naturally  that  life  was  full  of  radiant  wonder !  Was  she  then 
so  utterly  transformed  already  by  Beni-Mora?  Or  had  the 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  95 

thought  come  to  her  because  she  stood  side  by  side  with 
someone  whose  sorrows  had  been  unfathomably  deeper  than  her 
own,  and  so  who,  all  unconsciously,  gave  her  a  knowledge  of 
her  own — till  then  unsuspected — hopefulness  ? 

She  looked  at  her  companion  again.  He  seemed  to  have 
relinquished  his  intention  of  leaving  her,  and  was  standing 
quietly  beside  her,  staring  towards  the  desert,  with  his  head 
slightly  drooped  forward.  In  one  hand  he  held  a  thick  stick. 
He  had  put  his  hat  on  again.  His  attitude  was  much  calmer 
than  it  had  been.  Already  he  seemed  more  at  ease  with  her. 
She  was  glad  of  that.  She  did  not  ask  herself  why.  But  the 
intense  beauty  of  evening  in  this  land  and  at  this  height  made  her 
wish  enthusiastically  that  it  could  produce  a  happiness  such  as 
it  created  in  her  in  everyone.  Such  beauty,  with  its  voices,  its 
colours,  its  lines  of  tree  and  leaf,  of  wall  and  mountain  ridge, 
its  mystery  of  shapes  and  movements,  stillness  and  dreaming  dis- 
tance, its  atmosphere  of  the  far  off  come  near,  chastened  by 
journeying,  fine  with  the  unfamiliar,  its  solemn  changes  towards 
the  impenetrable  night,  was  too  large  a  thing  and  fraught  with 
too  much  tender  and  lovable  invention  to  be  worshipped  in  any 
selfishness.  It  made  her  feel  as  if  she  could  gladly  be  a  martyr 
for  unseen  human  beings,  as  if  sacrifice  would  be  an  easy  thing 
if  made  for  those  to  whom  such  beauty  would  appeal.  Brother- 
hood rose  up  and  cried  in  her,  as  it  surely  sang  in  the  sunset, 
in  the  mountains,  the  palm  groves  and  the  desert.  The  flame 
above  the  hills,  their  purple  outline,  the  moving,  feathery  trees, 
dark  under  the  rose-coloured  glory  of  the  west,  and  most  of 
all  the  immeasurably  remote  horizons,  each  moment  more  strange 
and  more  eternal,  made  her  long  to  make  this  harsh  stranger 
happy. 

"  One  ought  to  find  happiness  here,"  she  said  to  him  very 
simply. 

She  saw  his  hand  strain  itself  round  the  wood  of  his  stick. 

"Why?"  he  said. 

He  turned  right  round  to  her  and  looked  at  her  with  a  sort 
of  anger. 

"Why  should  you  suppose  so?"  he  added,  speaking  quite 
quickly,  and  without  his  former  uneasiness  and  consciousness. 

"  Because  it  is  so  beautiful  and  so  calm." 

"Calm!"  he  said.    "Here!" 

There  was  a  sound  of  passionate  surprise  in  his  voice.  Domini 
was  startled.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  fighting,  and  must  fight 
hard  if  she  were  not  to  be  beaten  to  the  dust.  But  when  she 


96  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

looked  at  him  she  could  find  no  weapons.  She  said  nothing. 
In  a  moment  he  spoke  again. 

"  You  find  calm  here,"  he  said  slowly.    "  Yes,  I  see." 

His  head  dropped  lower  and  his  face  hardened  as  he  looked 
over  the  edge  of  the  parapet  to  the  village,  the  blue  desert. 
Then  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  mountains  and  the  clear  sky  and 
the  shadowy  moon.  Each  element  in  the  evening  scene  was 
examined  with  a  fierce,  painful  scrutiny,  as  if  he  was  resolved  to 
wring  from  each  its  secret. 

"  Why,  yes,"  he  added  in  a  low,  muttering  voice  full  of  a  sort 
of  terrified  surprise,  "it  is  so.  You  are  right.  Why,  yes,  it  is 
calm  here." 

He  spoke  like  a  man  who  had  been  suddenly  convinced, 
beyond  power  of  further  unbelief,  of  something  he  had  never 
suspected,  never  dreamed  of.  And  the  conviction  seemed  to  be 
bitter  to  him,  even  alarming. 

"  But  away  out  there  must  be  the  real  home  of  peace,  I 
think,"  Domini  said. 

"  Where?  "  said  the  man,  quickly. 

She  pointed  towards  the  south. 

"  In  the  depths  of  the  desert,"  she  said.  "  Far  away  from 
civilisation,  far  away  from  modern  men  and  modern  women, 
and  all  the  noisy  trifles  we  are  accustomed  to." 

He  looked  towards  the  south  eagerly.  In  everything  he  did 
there  was  a  flame-like  intensity,  as  if  he  could  not  perform  an 
ordinary  action,  or  turn  his  eyes  upon  any  object,  without 
calling  up  in  his  mind,  or  heart,  a  violence  of  thought  or  of 
feeling. 

"  You  think  it — you  think  there  would  be  peace  out  there, 
far  away  in  the  desert?  "  he  said,  and  his  face  relaxed  slightly, 
as  if  in  obedience  to  some  thought  not  wholly  sad. 

"  It  may  be  fanciful,"  she  replied.  "  But  I  think  there  must. 
Surely  Nature  has  not  a  lying  face." 

He  was  still  gazing  towards  the  south,  from  which  the  night 
was  slowly  emerging,  a  traveller  through  a  mist  of  blue.  He 
seemed  to  be  held  fascinated  by  the  desert  which  was  fading 
away  gently,  like  a  mystery  which  had  drawn  near  to  the  light 
of  revelation,  but  which  was  now  slipping  back  into  an  under- 
world of  magic.  He  bent  forward  as  one  who  watches  a  depar- 
ture in  which  he  longs  to  share,  and  Domini  felt  sure  that  he 
had  forgotten  her.  She  felt,  too,  that  this  man  was  gripped  by 
the  desert  influence  more  fiercely  even  than  she  was,  and  that  he 
must  have  a  stronger  imagination,  a  greater  force  of  projection 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  97 

even  than  she  had.  Where  she  bore  a  taper  he  lifted  a  blazing 
torch. 

A  roar  of  drums  rose  up  immediately  beneath  them.  From 
the  negro  village  emerged  a  ragged  procession  of  thick-lipped 
men,  and  singing,  capering  women  tricked  out  in  scarlet  and 
yellow  shawls,  headed  by  a  male  dancer  clad  in  the  skins  of 
jackals,  and  decorated  with  mirrors,  camels'  skulls  and  chains 
of  animals'  teeth.  He  shouted  and  leaped,  rolled  his  bulging 
eyes,  and  protruded  a  fluttering  tongue.  The  dust  curled  up 
round  his  stamping,  naked  feet. 

"Yah-ah-la!    Yah-ah-la!" 

The  howling  chorus  came  up  to  the  tower,  with  a  clash  of 
enormous  castanets,  and  of  poles  beaten  rhythmically  together. 

"  Yi-yi-yi-yi!  "  went  the  shrill  voices  of  the  women. 

The  cloud  of  dust  increased,  enveloping  the  lower  part  of 
the  procession,  till  the  black  heads  and  waving  arms  emerged  as 
if  from  a  maelstrom.  The  thunder  of  the  drums  was  like  the 
thunder  of  a  cataract  in  which  the  singers,  disappearing  towards 
the  village,  seemed  to  be  swept  away. 

The  man  at  Domini's  side  raised  himself  up  with  a  jerk,  and 
all  the  former  fierce  timidity  and  consciousness  came  back  to  his 
face.  He  turned  round,  pulled  open  the  door  behind  him,  and 
took  off  his  hat. 

"  Excuse  me,  Madame,"  he  said.    "  Bon  soir!  " 

"  I  am  coming  too,"  Domini  answered. 

He  looked  uncomfortable  and  anxious,  hesitated,  then,  as  if 
driven  to  do  it  in  spite  of  himself,  plunged  downward  through 
the  narrow  doorway  of  the  tower  into  the  darkness.  Domini 
waited  for  a  moment,  listening  to  the  heavy  sound  of  his  tread 
on  the  wooden  stairs.  She  frowned  till  her  thick  eyebrows 
nearly  met  and  the  corners  of  her  lips  turned  down.  Then  she 
followed  slowly.  When  she  was  on  the  stairs  and  the  footsteps 
died  away  below  her  she  fully  realised  that  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life  a  man  had  insulted  her.  Her  face  felt  suddenly  very 
hot,  and  her  lips  very  dry,  and  she  longed  to  use  her  physical 
strength  in  a  way  not  wholly  feminine.  In  the  hall,  among  the 
shrouded  furniture,  she  met  the  smiling  doorkeeper.  She 
stopped. 

"  Did  the  gentleman  who  has  just  gone  out  give  you  his 
card  ?  "  she  said  abruptly. 

The  Arab  assumed  a  fawning,  servile  expression. 

"  No,  Madame,  but  he  is  a  very  good  gentleman,  and  I  know 
well  that  Monsieur  the  Count " 


98  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

Domini  cut  him  short. 

"  Of  what  nationality  is  he?  " 

11  Monsieur  the  Count,  Madame?  " 

"  No,  no." 

'  The  gentleman?  I  do  not  know.  But  he  can  speak  Arabic. 
Oh,  he  is  a  very  nice " 

"  Bon  soir,"  said  Domini,  giving  him  a  franc. 

When  she  was  out  on  the  road  in  front  of  the  hotel  she  saw 
the  stranger  striding  along  in  the  distance  at  the  tail  of  the 
negro  procession.  The  dust  stirred  up  by  the  dancers  whirled 
about  him.  Several  small  negroes  skipped  round  him,  doubtless 
making  eager  demands  upon  his  generosity.  He  seemed  to  take 
no  notice  of  them,  and  as  she  watched  him  Domini  was  re- 
minded of  his  retreat  from  the  praying  Arab  in  the  desert  that 
morning. 

"Is  he  afraid  of  women  as  he  is  afraid  of  prayer?"  she 
thought,  and  suddenly  the  sense  of  humiliation  and  anger  left 
her,  and  was  succeeded  by  a  powerful  curiosity  such  as  she  had 
never  felt  before  about  anyone.  She  realised  that  this  curiosity 
had  dawned  in  her  almost  at  the  first  moment  when  she  saw  the 
stranger,  and  had  been  growing  ever  since.  One  circumstance 
after  another  had  increased  it  till  now  it  was  definite,  concrete. 
She  wondered  that  she  did  not  feel  ashamed  of  such  a  feeling  so 
unusual  in  her,  and  surely  unworthy,  like  a  prying  thing.  Of 
all  her  old  indifference  that  side  which  confronted  people  had 
always  been  the  most  sturdy,  the  most  solidly  built.  Without 
affectation  she  had  been  a  profoundly  incurious  woman  as  to  the 
lives  and  the  concerns  of  others,  even  of  those  whom  she  knew 
best  and  was  supposed  to  care  for  most.  Her  nature  had  been 
essentially  languid  in  human  intercourse.  The  excitements, 
troubles,  even  the  passions  of  others  had  generally  stirred  her  no 
more  than  a  distant  puppet-show  stirs  an  absent-minded  passer 
in  the  street. 

In  Africa  it  seemed  that  her  whole  nature  had  been  either 
violently  renewed,  or  even  changed.  She  could  not  tell  which. 
But  this  strong  stirring  of  curiosity  would,  she  believed,  have 
been  impossible  in  the  woman  she  had  been  but  a  week  ago,  the 
woman  who  travelled  to  Marseilles  dulled,  ignorant  of  herself, 
longing  for  change.  Perhaps  instead  of  being  angry  she  ought 
to  welcome  it  as  a  symptom  of  the  re-creation  she  longed  for. 

While  she  changed  her  gown  for  dinner  that  night  she  debated 
within  herself  how  she  would  treat  her  fellow-guest  when  she 
met  him  in  the  salle-a-manger.  She  ought  to  cut  him  after  what 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  99 

had  occurred,  she  supposed.  Then  it  seemed  to  her  that  to  do 
so  would  be  undignified,  and  would  give  him  the  impression 
that  he  had  the  power  to  offend  her.  She  resolved  to  bow  to 
him  if  they  met  face  to  face.  Just  before  she  went  downstairs 
she  realised  how  vehement  her  internal  debate  had  been,  and 
was  astonished.  Suzanne  was  putting  away  something  in  a 
drawer,  bending  down  and  stretching  out  her  plump  arms. 

"  Suzanne!  "  Domini  said. 

"Yes,  Mam'zelle!" 

"  How  long  have  you  been  with  me?  " 

"Three  years,  Mam'zelle." 

The  maid  shut  the  drawer  and  turned  round,  fixing  her 
shallow,  blue-grey  eyes  on  her  mistress,  and  standing  as  if  she 
were  ready  to  be  photographed. 

"  Would  you  say  that  I  am  the  same  sort  of  person  to-day 
as  I  was  three  years  ago?  " 

Suzanne  looked  like  a  cat  that  has  been  startled  by  a  sudden 
noise. 

"The  same,  Mam'zelle?" 

"  Yes.    Do  you  think  I  have  altered  in  that  time  ?  " 

Suzanne  considered  the  question  with  her  head  slightly  on  one 
side. 

"  Only  here,  Mam'zelle,"  she  replied  at  length. 

"  Here !  "  said  Domini,  rather  eagerly.  "  Why,  I  have  only 
been  here  twenty-six  hours." 

"  That  is  true.  But  Mam'zelle  looks  as  if  she  had  a  little  life 
here,  a  little  emotion.  Mon  Dieu !  Mam'zelle  will  pardon  me, 
but  what  is  a  woman  who  feels  no  emotion?  A  packet.  Is  it 
not  so,  Mam'zelle?  " 

"  Well,  but  what  is  there  to  be  emotional  about  here?  " 

Suzanne  looked  vaguely  crafty. 

"Who  knows,  Mam'zelle?  Who  can  say?  Mon  Dieu! 
This  village  is  dull,  but  it  is  odd.  No  band  plays.  There  are 
no  shops  for  a  girl  to  look  into.  There  is  nothing  chic  except 
the  costumes  of  the  Zouaves.  But  one  cannot  deny  that  it  is 
odd.  When  Mam'zelle  was  away  this  afternoon  in  the  tower 
Monsieur  Helmuth " 

"Who  is  that?" 

"  The  Monsieur  who  accompanies  the  omnibus  to  the  station. 
Monsieur  Helmuth  was  polite  enough  to  escort  me  through  the 
village.     Mon  Dieu,  Mam'zelle,  I  said  to  myself,  'Anything 
might  occur  here.'  " 
,     "  Anything!    What  do  you  mean?  " 


ioo  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

But  Suzanne  did  not  seem  to  know.  She  only  made  her 
figure  look  more  tense  than  ever,  tucked  in  her  round  little  chin, 
which  was  dimpled  and  unmeaning,  and  said: 

"  Who  knows,  Mam'zelle  ?  This  village  is  dull,  that  is  true, 
but  it  is  odd.  One  does  not  find  oneself  in  such  places  every 
day." 

Domini  could  not  help  laughing  at  these  Delphic  utterances, 
but  she  went  downstairs  thoughtfully.  She  knew  Suzanne's 
practical  spirit.  Till  now  the  maid  had  never  shown  any 
capacity  of  imagination.  Beni-Mora  was  certainly  beginning 
to  mould  her  nature  into  a  slightly  different  shape.  And 
Domini  seemed  to  see  an  Eastern  potter  at  work,  squatting  in 
the  sun  and  with  long  and  delicate  fingers  changing  the  outline 
of  the  statuette  of  a  woman,  modifying  a  curve  here,  an  angle 
there,  till  the  clay  began  to  show  another  woman,  but  with,  as 
it  were,  the  shadow  of  the  former  one  lurking  behind  the  new 
personality. 

The  stranger  was  not  at  dinner.  His  table  was  laid  and 
Domini  sat  expecting  each  moment  to  hear  the  shuffling  tread 
of  his  heavy  boots  on  the  wooden  floor.  When  he  did  not  come 
she  thought  she  was  glad.  After  dinner  she  spoke  for  a  moment 
to  the  priest  and  then  went  upstairs  to  the  verandah  to  take 
coffee.  She  found  Batouch  there.  He  had  renounced  his  de- 
termined air,  and  his  cafe-au-lait  countenance  and  huge  body 
expressed  enduring  pathos,  as  of  an  injured,  patient*  creature 
laid  out  for  the  trampling  of  Domini's  cruel  feet. 

"  Well?  "  she  said,  sitting  down  by  the  basket  table. 

"Well,  Madame?" 

He  sighed  and  looked  on  the  ground,  lifted  one  white-socked 
foot,  removed  its  yellow  slipper,  shook  out  a  tiny  stone  from  the 
slipper  and  put  it  on  again,  slowly,  gracefully  and  very  sadly. 
Then  he  pulled  the  white  sock  up  with  both  hands  and  glanced 
at  Domini  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"  Madame  does  not  care  to  see  the  dances  of  Beni-Mora,  to 
hear  the  music,  to  listen  to  the  story-teller,  to  enter  the  cafe  of 
El  Hadj  where  Achmed  sings  to  the  keef  smokers,  or  to  witness 
the  beautiful  religious  ecstasies  of  the  dervishes  from  Oumach. 
Therefore  I  come  to  bid  Madame  respectfully  good-night  and  to 
take  my  departure." 

He  threw  his  burnous  over  his  left  shoulder  with  a  sudden 
gesture  of  despair  that  'was  full  of  exaggeration.  Domini 
smiled. 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  101 

"  You've  been  very  good  to-day,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  always  good,  Madame.  I  am  of  a  serious  disposition. 
Not  one  keeps  Ramadan  as  I  do." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  Go  downstairs  and  wait  for  me  under 
the  arcade." 

Batouch's  large  face  became  suddenly  a  rendezvous  of  all  the 
gaieties. 

"  Madame  is  coming  out  to-night?  " 

"  Presently.     Be  in  the  arcade." 

He  swept  away  with  the  ample  magnificence  of  joyous  bear- 
ing and  movement  that  was  like  a  loud  Te  Deum. 

"  Suzanne !     Suzanne ! " 

Domini  had  finished  her  coffee. 

"  Mam'zelle !  "  answered  Suzanne,  appearing. 

"  Would  you  like  to  come  out  with  me  to-night  ?  " 

"  Mam'zelle  is  going  out?  " 

"  Yes,  to  see  the  village  by  night." 

Suzanne  looked  irresolute.  Craven  fear  and  curiosity  fought 
a  battle  within  her,  as  was  evident  by  the  expressions  that  came 
and  went  in  her  face  before  she  answered. 

"  Shall  we  not  be  murdered,  Mam'zelle,  and  are  there  in- 
teresting things  to  see?" 

"  There  are  interesting  things  to  see — dancers,  singers,  keef 
smokers.  But  if  you  are  afraid  don't  come." 

"  Dancers,  Mam'zelle !  But  the  Arabs  carry  knives.  And  is 
there  singing?  I — I  should  not  like  Mam'zelle  to  go  without 
me.  But " 

"  Come  and  protect  me  from  the  knives  then.  Bring  my 
jacket — any  one.  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  put  it  on." 

As  she  spoke  the  distant  tom-toms  began.  Suzanne  started 
nervously  and  looked  at  Domini  with  sincere  apprehension. 

"  We  had  better  not  go,  Mam'zelle.  It  is  not  safe  out  here. 
Men  who  make  a  noise  like  that  would  not  respect  us." 

"  I  like  it." 

"  That  sound  ?  But  it  is  always  the  same  and  there  is  no 
music  in  it." 

"  Perhaps  there  is  more  in  it  than  music.    The  jacket?  " 

Suzanne  went  gingerly  to  fetch  it.  The  faint  cry  of  the 
African  hautboy  rose  up  above  the  tom-toms.  The  evening  fete 
was  beginning.  To-night  Domini  felt  that  she  must  go'  to  the 
distant  music  and  learn  to  understand  its  meaning,  not  only  for 
herself,  but  for  those  who  made  it  and  danced  to  it  night  after 
night.  It  stirred  her  imagination,  and  made  her  in  love  with 


102  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

mystery,  and  anxious  at  least  to  steal  to  the  very  threshold  of 
the  barbarous  world.  Did  it  stir  those  who  had  had  it  in  their 
ears  ever  since  they  were  naked,  sunburned  babies  rolling  in  the 
hot  sun  of  the  Sahara?  Could  it  seem  as  ordinary  to  them  as 
the  cold  uproar  of  the  piano-organ  to  the  urchins  of  White- 
chapel,  or  the  whine  of  the  fiddle  to  the  peasants  of  Touraine 
where  Suzanne  was  born?  She  wanted  to  know.  Suzanne 
returned  with  the  jacket.  She  still  looked  apprehensive,  but  she 
had  put  on  her  hat  and  fastened  a  sprig  of  red  geranium  in  the 
front  of  her  black  gown.  The  curiosity  was  in  the  ascendant. 

"  We  are  not  going  quite  alone,  Mam'zelle?  " 

"  No,  no.     Batouch  will  protect  us." 

Suzanne  breathed  a  furtive  sigh. 

The  poet  was^in  the  white  arcade  with  Hadj,  who  looked 
both  wicked  and  deplorable,  and  had  a  shabby  air,  in  marked 
contrast  to  Batouch's  ostentatious  triumph.  Domini  felt  quite 
sorry  for  him. 

"  You  come  with  us  too,"  she  said. 

Hadj  squared  his  shoulders  and  instantly  looked  vivacious 
and  almost  smart.  But  an  undecided  expression  came  into  his 
face. 

"Where  is  Madame  going?" 

"  To  see  the  village." 

Batouch  shot  a  glance  at  Hadj  and  smiled  unpleasantly. 

"  I  will  come  with  Madame." 

Batouch  still  smiled. 

"  We  are  going  to  the  Ouled  Nails,"  he  said  significantly  to 
Hadj. 

«  I_I  wiH  come." 

They  set  out.  Suzanne  looked  gently  at  the  poet's  legs  and 
seemed  comforted. 

"  Take  great  care'  of  Mademoiselle  Suzanne,"  Domini  said 
to  the  poet.  "  She  is  a  little  nervous  in  the  dark." 

"  Mademoiselle  Suzanne  is  like  the  first  day  after  the  fast  of 
Ramadan,"  replied  the  poet,  majestically.  "  No  one  would 
harm  her  were  she  to  wander  alone  to  Tombouctou." 

The  prospect  drew  from  Suzanne  a  startled  gulp.  Batouch 
placed  himself  tenderly  at  her  side  and  they  set  out,  Domini 
walking  behind  with  Hadj. 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  103 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE  village  was  full  of  the  wan  presage  of  the  coming  of  the 
moon.  The  night  was  very  still  and  very  warm.  As  they  skirted 
the  long  gardens  Domini  saw  a  light  in  the  priest's  house.  It 
made  her  wonder  how  he  passed  his  solitary  evenings  when  he 
went  home  from  the  hotel,  and  she  fancied  him  sitting  in  some 
plainly-furnished  little  room  with  Bous-Bous  and  a  few  books, 
smoking  a  pipe  and  thinking  sadly  of  the  White  Fathers  of 
Africa  and  of  his  frustrated  desire  for  complete  renunciation. 
With  this  last  thought  blended  the  still  remote  sound  of  the 
hautboy.  It  suggested  anything  rather  than  renunciation; 
mysterious  melancholy — successor  to  passion — the  cry  of  long- 
ing, the  wail  of  the  unknown  that  draws  some  men  and  women 
to  splendid  follies  and  to  ardent  pilgrimages  whose  goal  is  the 
mirage. 

Hadj  was  talking  in  a  low  voice,  but  Domini  did  not  listen  to 
him.  She  was  vaguely  aware  that  he  was  abusing  Batouch,  say- 
ing that  he  was  a  liar,  inclined  to  theft,  a  keef  smoker,  and  in  a 
general  way  steeped  to  the  lips  in  crime.  But  the  mocn  was 
rising,  the  distant  music  was  becoming  more  distinct.  She  could 
not  listen  to  Hadj. 

As  they  turned  into  the  street  of  the  sand-diviner  the  first  ray 
of  the  moon  fell  on  the  white  road.  Far  away  at  the  end  of  the 
street  Domini  could  see  the  black  foliage  of  the  trees  in  the 
Gazelles'  garden,  and  beyond,  to  the  left,  a  dimness  of  shadowy 
palms  at  the  desert  edge.  The  desert  itself  was  not  visible.  Two 
Arabs  passed,  shrouded  in  burnouses,  with  the  hoods  drawn  up 
over  their  heads.  Only  their  black  beards  could  be  seen.  They 
were  talking  violently  and  waving  their  arms.  Suzanne  shud- 
dered and  drew  close  to  the  poet.  Her  plump  face  worked  and 
she  glanced  appealingly  at  her  mistress.  But  Domini  was  not 
thinking  of  her,  or  of  violence  or  danger.  The  sound  of  the 
tom-toms  and  hautboys  seemed  suddenly  much  louder  now  that 
the  moon  began  to  shine,  making  a  whiteness  among  the  white 
houses  of  the  village,  the  white  robes  of  the  inhabitants,  a  greater 
whiteness  on  the  white  road  that  lay  before  them.  And  she  was 
thinking  that  the  moon  whiteness  of  Beni-Mora  was  more 
passionate  than  pure,  more  like  the  blanched  face  of  a  lover  than 
the  cool,  pale  cheek  of  a  virgin.  There  was  excitement  in  it, 
suggestion  greater  even  than  the  suggestion  of  the  tremendous 
coloured  scenes  of  the  evening  that  preceded  such  a  night.  And 


io4  THE  GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

she  mused  of  white  heat  and  of  what  it  means — the  white  heat  of 
the  brain  blazing  with  thoughts  that  govern,  the  white  heat  of 
the  heart  blazing  with  emotions  that  make  such  thoughts  seem 
cold.  She  had  never  known  either.  Was  she  incapable  of  know- 
ing them  ?  Could  she  imagine  them  till  there  was  physical  heat 
in  her  body  if  she  was  incapable  of  knowing  them?  Suzanne 
and  the  two  Arabs  were  distant  shadows  to  her  when  that  first 
moon-ray  touched  their  feet.  The  passion  of  the  night  began 
to  burn  her,  and  she  thought  she  would  like  to  take  her  soul  and 
hold  it  out  to  the  white  flame. 

As  they  passed  the  sand-diviner's  house  Domini  saw  his  spectral 
figure  standing  under  the  yellow  light  of  the  hanging  lantern 
in  the  middle  of  his  carpet  shop,  which  was  lined  from  floor  to 
ceiling  with  dull  red  embroideries  and  dim  with  the  fumes  of  an 
incense  brazier.  He  was  talking  to  a  little  boy,  but  keeping  a 
wary  eye  on  the  street,  and  he  came  out  quickly,  beckoning  with 
his  long  hands,  and  calling  softly,  in  a  half-chuckling  and  yet 
authoritative  voice: 

"  Venez,  Madame,  venez!    Come!  come!  " 

Suzanne  seized  Domini's  arm. 

"  Not  to-night !  "  Domini  called  out. 

"  Yes,  Madame,  to-night.  The  vie  of  Madame  is  there  in 
the  sand  to-night.  Je  la  vois,  je  la  vois.  C'est  la  dans  le  sable 
to-night." 

The  moonlight  showed  the  wound  on  his  face.  Suzanne 
uttered  a  cry  and  hid  her  eyes  with  her  hands.  They  went  on 
towards  the  trees.  Hadj  walked  with  hesitation. 

"  How  loud  the  music  is  getting,"  Domini  said  to  him. 

"  It  will  deafen  Madame's  ears  if  she  gets  nearer,"  said 
Hadj,  eagerly.  "  And  the  dancers  are  not  for  Madame.  For 
the  Arabs,  yes,  but  for  a  great  lady  of  the  most  respectable 
England!  Madame  will  be  red  with  disgust,  with  anger. 
Madame  will  have  mal-au-cceur!' 

Batouch  began  to  look  like  an  idol  on  whose  large  face  the 
artificer  had  carved  an  expression  of  savage  ferocity. 

"  Madame  is  my  client,"  he  said  fiercely.  "  Madame  trusts 
in  me." 

Hadj  laughed  with  a  snarl. 

"  He  who  smokes  the  keef  is  like  a  Mehari  with  a  swollen 
tongue,"  he  rejoined. 

The  poet  looked  as  if  he  were  going  to  spring  upon  his 
cousin,  but  he  restrained  himself  and  a  slow,  malignant  smile 
curled  about  his  thick  lips  like  a  snake. 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  105 

"  I  shall  show  to  Madame  a  dancer  who  is  modest,  who  is 
beautiful,  Hadj-ben-Ibrahim,"  he  said  softly. 

"  Fatma  is  sick,"  said  Hadj,  quickly. 

"  It  will  not  be  Fatma." 

Hadj  began  suddenly  to  gesticulate  with  his  thin,  delicate 
hands  and  to  look  fiercely  excited. 

"  Halima  is  at  the  Fontaine  Chaude,"  he  cried. 

"  Keltoum  will  be  there." 

"  She  will  not.  Her  foot  is  sick.  She  cannot  dance.  For  a 
week  she  will  not  dance.  I  know  it." 

"And — Irena?  Is  she  sick?  Is  she  at  the  Hammam 
Salahine?" 

Hadj's  countenance  fell.  He  looked  at  his  cousin  sideways, 
always  showing  his  teeth. 

"Do  you  not  know,  Hadj-ben-Ibrahim?" 

f(  Ana  ma  'audi  ma  nek  oul  lek! "  *  growled  Hadj  in  his 
throat. 

They  had  reached  the  end  of  the  little  street.  The  whiteness 
of  the  great  road  which  stretched  straight  through  the  oasis  into 
the  desert  lay  before  them,  with  the  statue  of  Cardinal  Lavigerie 
staring  down  it  in' the  night.  At  right  angles  was  the  street  of 
the  dancers,  narrow,  bounded  with  the  low  white  houses  of  the 
ouleds,  twinkling  with  starry  lights,  humming  with  voices,  throb- 
bing with  the  clashing  music  that  poured  from  the  rival  cafes 
maures,  thronged  with  the  white  figures  of  the  desert  men, 
strolling  slowly,  softly  as  panthers  up  and  down.  The  moon- 
light was  growing  brighter,  as  if  invisible  hands  began  to  fan 
the  white  flame  of  passion  which  lit  up  Beni-Mora.  A  patrol 
of  Tirailleurs  Indigenes  passed  by  going  up  the  street,  in  yellow 
and  blue  uniforms,  turbans  and  white  gaiters,  their  rifles  over 
their  broad  shoulders.  The  faint  tramp  of  their  marching 
feet  was  just  audible  on  the  sandy  road. 

"  Hadj  can  go  home  if  he  is  afraid  of  anything  in  the  dancing 
street,"  said  Domini,  rather  maliciously.  "  Let  us  follow  the 
soldiers." 

Hadj  started  as  if  he  had  been  stung,  and  looked  at  Domini 
as  if  he  would  like  to  strangle  her. 

"  I  am  afraid  of  nothing,"  he  exclaimed  proudly.  "  Madame 
does  not  know  Hadj-ben-Ibrahim." 

Batouch  laughed  soundlessly,  shaking  his  great  shoulders. 
It  was  evident  that  he  had  divined  his  cousin's  wish  to  supplant 

*  "  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you.  " 


106  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

him  and  was  busily  taking  his  revenge.  Domini  was  amused, 
and  as  they  went  slowly  up  the  street  in  the  wake  of  the  soldiers 
she7  said : 

"Do  you  often  come  here  at  night,  Hadj-ben-Ibrahim?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  Madame,  when  I  am  alone.     But  with  ladies " 

"  You  were  here  last  night,  weren't  you,  with  the  traveller 
from  the  hotel  ?  " 

"  No,  Madame.  The  Monsieur  of  the  hotel  preferred  to 
visit  the  cafe  of  the  story-teller,  which  is  far  more  interesting. 
If  Madame  will  permit  me  to  take  her " 

But  this  last  assault  was  too  much  for  the  poet's  philosophy. 
He  suddenly  threw  off  all  pretence  of  graceful  calm,  and  poured 
out  upon  Hadj  a  torrent  of  vehement  Arabic,  accompanying  it 
with  passionate  gestures  which  filled  Suzanne  with  horror  and 
Domini  with  secret  delight.  She  liked  this  abrupt  unveiling  of 
the  raw.  There  had  always  lurked  in  her  an  audacity,  a  quick 
spirit  of  adventure  more  boyish  than  feminine.  She  had  reached 
the  age  of  thirty-two  without  ever  gratifying  it,  or  even  fully 
realising  how  much  she  longed  to  gratify  it.  But  now  she  began 
to  understand  it  and  to  feel  that  it  was  imperious. 

"  I  have  a  barbarian  in  me,"  she  thought. 

"  Batouch!  "  she  said  sharply. 

The  poet  turned  a  distorted  face  to  her. 

"Madame!" 

"  That  will  do.     Take  us  to  the  dancing-house." 

Batouch  shot  a  last  ferocious  glance  at  Hadj  and  they  went 
on  into  the  crowd  of  strolling  men. 

The  little  street,  bright  with  the  lamps  of  the  small  houses, 
from  which  projected  wooden  balconies  painted  in  gay  colours, 
and  with  the  glowing  radiance  of  the  moon,  was  mysterious 
despite  its  gaiety,  its  obvious  dedication  to  the  cult  of  pleasure. 
Alive  with  the  shrieking  sounds  of  music,  the  movement  and  the 
murmur  of  desert  humanity  made  it  almost  solemn.  This  crowd 
of  boys  and  men,  robed  in  white  from  head  to  heel,  preserved 
a  serious  grace  in  its  vivacity,  suggested  besides  a  dignified 
barbarity  a  mingling  of  angel,  monk  and  nocturnal  spirit.  In 
the  distance  of  the  moonbeams,  gliding  slowly  over  the  dusty 
road  with  slippered  feet,  there  was  something  soft  and  radiant 
in  their  moving  whiteness.  Nearer,  their  pointed  hoods  made 
them  monastical  as  a  procession  stealing  from  a  range  of  cells 
to  chant  a  midnight  mass.  In  the  shadowy  dusk  of  the  tiny 
side  alleys  they  were  like  wandering  ghosts  intent  on  unholy 
errands  or  returning  to  the  graveyard. 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  107 

On  some  of  the  balconies  painted  girls  were  leaning  and 
smoking  cigarettes.  Before  each  of  the  lighted  doorways  from 
which  the  shrill  noise  of  music  came,  small,  intent  crowds  were 
gathered,  watching  the  performance  that  was  going  on  inside. 
The  robes  of  the  Arabs  brushed  against  the  skirts  of  Domini  and 
Suzanne,  and  eyes  stared  at  them  from  every  side  with  a  scrutiny 
that  was  less  impudent  than  seriously  bold. 

"Madame!" 

Hadj's  thin  hand  was  pulling  Domini's  sleeve. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"  This  is  the  best  dancing-house.  The  children  dance 
here." 

Domini's  height  enabled  her  to  peer  over  the  shoulders  of 
those  gathered  before  the  door,  and  in  the  lighted  distance  of  a 
white-walled  room,  painted  with  figures  of  soldiers  and  Arab 
chiefs,  she  saw  a  small  wriggling  figure  between  two  rows  of 
squatting  men,  two  baby  hands  waving  coloured  handkerchiefs, 
two  little  feet  tapping  vigorously  upon  an  earthen  floor,  for  back- 
ground a  divan  crowded  with  women  and  musicians,  with 
inflated  cheeks  and  squinting  eyes.  She  stood  for  a  moment  to 
look,  then  she  turned  away.  There  was  an  expression  of  disgust 
in  her  eyes. 

"  No,  I  don't'  want  to  see  children,"  she  said.  "  That's 
too " 

She  glanced  at  her  escort  and  did  not  finish. 

"  I  know,"  said  Batouch.  "  Madame  wishes  for  the  real 
ouleds." 

He  led  them  across  the  street.  Hadj  followed  reluctantly. 
Before  going  into  this  second  dancing-house  Domini  stopped 
again  to  see  from  outside  what  it  was  like,  but  only  for  an 
instant.  Then  a  brightness  came  into  her  eyes,  an  eager  look. 

"  Yes,  take  me  in  here,"  she  said. 

Batouch  laughed  softly,  and  Hadj  uttered  a  word  below  his 
breath. 

"  Madame  will  see  Irena  here,"  said  Batouch,  pushing  the 
watching  Arabs  unceremoniously  away. 

Domini  did  not  answer.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  man  who 
was  sitting  in  a  corner  far  up  the  room,  bending  forward  and 
staring  intently  at  a  woman  who  was  in  the  act  of  stepping 
down  from  a  raised  platform  decorated  with  lamps  and  small 
bunches  of  flowers  in  earthen  pots. 

"  I  wish  to  sit  quite  near  the  door,"  she  whispered  to  Batouch 
as  they  went  in. 


io8  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  But  it  is  much  better " 


"Do  what  I  tell  you,"  she  said.  "The  left  side  of  the 
room." 

Hadj  looked  a  little  happier.  Suzanne  was  clinging  to  his 
arm.  He  smiled  at  her  with  something  of  mischief,  but  he  took 
care,  when  a  place  was  cleared  on  a  bench  for  their  party,  to  sit 
down  at  the  end  next  the  door,  and  he  cast  an  anxious  glance 
towards  the  platform  where  the  dancing-girls  attached  to  the 
cafe  sat  in  a  row,  hunched  up  against  the  bare  wall,  waiting 
their  turn  to  perform.  Then  suddenly  he  shook  his  head,  tucked 
in  his  chin  and  laughed.  His  whole  face  was  transformed 
from  craven  fear  to  vivacious  rascality.  While  he  laughed  he 
looked  at  Batouch,  who  was  ordering  four  cups  of  coffee  from 
the  negro  attendant.  The  poet  took  no  notice.  For  the 
moment  he  was  intent  upon  his  professional  duties.  But  when 
the  coffee  was  brought,  and  set  upon  a  round  wooden  stool 
between  two  bunches  of  roses,  he  had  time  to  note  Hadj's  sud- 
den gaiety  and  to  realise  its  meaning.  Instantly  he  spoke  to 
the  negro  in  a  low  voice.  Hadj  stopped  laughing.  The  negro 
sped  away  and  returned  with  the  proprietor  of  the  cafe,  a  stout 
Kabyle  with  a  fair  skin  and  blue  eyes. 

Batouch  lowered  his  voice  to  a  guttural  whisper  and  spoke 
in  Arabic,  while  Hadj,  shifting  uneasily  on  the  end  seat,  glanced 
at  him  sideways  out  of  his  almond-shaped  eyes.  Domini  heard 
the  name  "  Irena,"  and  guessed  that  Batouch  was  asking  the 
Kabyle  to  send  for  her  and  make  her  dance.  She  could  not 
help  being  amused  for  a  moment  by  the  comedy  of  intrigue, 
complacently  malignant  on  both  sides,  that  was  being  played  by 
the  two  cousins,  but  the  moment  passed  and  left  her  engrossed, 
absorbed,  and  not  merely  by  the  novelty  of  the  surroundings,  by 
the  strangeness  of  the  women,  of  their  costumes,  and  of  their 
movements.  She  watched  them,  but  she  watched  more  closely, 
more  eagerly,  rather  as  a  spy  than  as  a  spectator,  one  who  was 
watching  them  with  an  intentness,  a  still  passion,  a  fierce  curi- 
osity and  a  sort  of  almost  helpless  wonder  such  as  she  had  never 
seen  before,  and  .could  never  have  found  within  herself  to  put  at 
the  service  of  any  human  marvel. 

Close  to  the  top  of  the  room  on  the  right  the  stranger  was 
sitting  in  the  midst  of  a  mob  of  Arabs,  whose  flowing  draperies 
almost  concealed  his  ugly  European  clothes.  On  the  wall  imme- 
diately behind  him  was  a  brilliantly-coloured  drawing  of  a  fat 
Ouled  Nail  leering  at  a  French  soldier,  which  made  an  uncon- 
ventional background  to  his  leaning  figure  and  sunburnt  face,  in 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  109 

which  there  seemed  now  to  be  both  asceticism  and  something 
so  different  and  so  powerful  that  it  was  likely,  from  moment  to 
moment,  to  drive  out  the  asceticism  and  to  achieve  the  loneli- 
ness of  all  conquering  things.  This  fighting  expression  made 
Domini  think  of  a  picture  she  had  once  seen  representing  a 
pilgrim  going  through  a  dark  forest  attended  by  his  angel  and 
his  devil.  The  angel  of  the  pilgrim  was  a  weak  and  almost 
childish  figure,  frail,  bloodless, 'scarcely  even  radiant,  while  the 
devil  was  lusty  and  bold,  with  a  muscular  body  and  a  sensual, 
aquiline  face,  which  smiled  craftily,  looking  at  the  pilgrim. 
There  was  surely  a  devil  in  the  watching  traveller  which  was 
pushing  the  angel  out  of  him.  Domini  had  never  before  seemed 
to  see  clearly  the  legendary  battle  of  the  human  heart.  But 
it  had  never  before  been  manifested  to  her  audaciously  in  the 
human  face. 

All  around  the  Arabs  sat,  motionless  and  at  ease,  gazing  on 
the  curious  dance  of  which  they  never  tire — a  dance  which  has 
some  ingenuity,  much  sensuality  and  provocation,  but  little 
beauty  and  little  mystery,  unless — as  happens  now  and  then — 
an  idol-like  woman  of  the  South,  with  all  the  enigma  of  the 
distant  desert  in  her  kohl-tinted  eyes,  dances  it  with  the  sultry 
gloom  of  a  half-awakened  sphinx,  and  makes  of  it  a  barbarous 
manifestation  of  the  nature  that  lies  hidden  in  the  heart  of  the 
sun,  a  silent  cry  uttered  by  a  savage  body  born  in  a  savage 
land. 

In  the  cafe  of  Tahar,  the  Kabyle,  there  was  at  present  no 
such  woman.  His  beauties,  huddled  together  on  their  narrow 
bench  before  a  table  decorated  with  glasses  of  water  and  sprigs 
of  orange  blossom  in  earthen  vases,  looked  dull  and  cheerless  iri 
their  gaudy  clothes.  Their  bodies  were  well  formed,  but 
somnolent.  Their  painted  hands  hung  down  like  the  hands  of 
marionettes.  The  one  who  was  dancing  suggested  Duty  clad 
in  Eastern  garb  and  laying  herself  out  carefully  to  be  wicked. 
Her  jerks  and  wrigglings,  though  violent,  were  inhuman,  like 
those  of  a  complicated  piece  of  mechanism  devised  by  a  morbid 
engineer.  After  a  glance  or  two  at  her  Domini  felt  that  she 
was  bored  by  her  own  agilities.  Domini's  wonder  increased 
when  she  looked  again  at  the  traveller. 

For  it  was  this  dance  of  the  ennui  of  the  East  which  raised 
up  in  him  this  obvious  battle,  which  drove  his  secret  into  the 
illumination  of  the  hanging  lamps  and  gave  it  to  a  woman,  who 
felt  half  confused,  half  ashamed  at  possessing  it,  and  yet  could 
not  cast  it  away. 


no  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

If  they  both  lived  on,  without  speaking  or  meeting,  for 
another  half  century,  Domini  could  never  know  the  shape 
of  the  devil  in  this  man,  the  light  of  the  smile  upon  its  face. 

The  dancing  woman  had  observed  him,  and  presently  she 
began  slowly  to  wriggle  towards  him  between  the  rows  of  Arabs, 
fixing  her  eyes  upon  him  and  parting  her  scarlet  lips  in  a  greedy 
smile.  As  she  came  on  the  stranger  evidently  began  to  realise 
that  he  was  her  bourne.  He  had  been  leaning  forward,  but 
when  she  approached,  waving  her  red  hands,  shaking  her  promi- 
nent breasts,  and  violently  jerking  her  stomach,  he  sat  straight 
up,  and  then,  as  if  instinctively  trying  to  get  away  from  her, 
pressed  back  against  the  wall,  hiding  the  painting  of  the  Ouled 
Nail  and  the  French  soldier.  A  dark  flush  rose  on  his  face 
and  even  flooded  his  forehead  to  his  low-growing  hair.  His 
eyes  were  full  of  a  piteous  anxiety  and  discomfort,  and  he 
glanced  almost  guiltily  to  right  and  left  of  him  as  if  he  expected 
the  hooded  Arab  spectators  to  condemn  his  presence  there  now 
that  the  dancer  drew  their  attention  to  it.  The  dancer  noticed 
his  confusion  and  seemed  pleased  by  it,  and  moved  to  more 
energetic  demonstrations  of  her  art.  She  lifted  her  arms  above 
her  head,  half  closed  her  eyes,  assumed  an  expression  of  languid 
ecstasy  and  slowly  shuddered.  Then,  bending  backward,  she 
nearly  touched  the  floor,  swung  round,  still  bending,  and  showed 
the  long  curve  of  her  bare  throat  to  the  stranger,  while  the  girls, 
huddled  on  the  bench  by  the  musicians,  suddenly  roused  them- 
selves and  joined  their  voices  in  a  shrill  and  prolonged  twitter. 
The  Arabs  did  not  smile,  but  the  deepness  of  their  attention 
seemed  to  increase  like  a  cloud  growing  darker.  All  the 
luminous  eyes  in  the  room  were  steadily  fixed  upon  the  man  lean- 
ing back  against  the  hideous  picture  on  the  wall  and  the  gaudy 
siren  curved  almost  into  an  arch  before  him.  The  musicians 
blew  their  hautboys  and  beat  their  tom-toms  more  violently, 
and  all  things,  Domini  thought,  were  filled  with  a  sense  of 
climax.  She  felt  as  if  the  room,  all  the  inanimate  objects,  and 
all  the  animate  figures  in  it,  were  instruments  of  an  orchestra, 
and  as  if  each  individual  instrument  was  contributing  to  a  slow, 
and  great,  and  irresistible  crescendo.  The  stranger  took  his 
part  with  the  rest,  but  against  his  will,  and  as  if  under  some 
terrible  compulsion. 

His  face  was  scarlet  now,  and  his  shining  eyes  looked  down  on 
the  dancer's  throat  and  breast  with  a  mingling  of  eagerness  and 
horror.  Slowly  she  raised  herself,  turned,  bent  forwards  quiver- 
ing, and  presented  her  face  to  him,  while  the  women  twittered 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  iix 

once  more  in  chorus.  He  still  stared  at  her  without  moving. 
The  hautboy  players  prolonged  a  wailing  note,  and  the  tom- 
toms gave  forth  a  fierce  and  dull  murmur  almost  like  a  death- 
roll. 

"  She  wants  him  to  give  her  money,"  Batouch  whispered  to 
Domini.  "Why  does  not  he  give  her  money?" 

Evidently  the  stranger  did  not  understand  what  was  expected 
of  him.  The  music  changed  again  to  a  shrieking  tune,  the 
dancer  drew  back,  did  a  few  more  steps,  jerked  her  stomach 
with  fury,  stamped  her  feet  on  the  floor.  Then  once  more  she 
shuddered  slowly,  half  closed  her  eyes,  glided  close  to  the 
stranger,  and  falling  down  deliberately  laid  her  head  on  his 
knees,  while  again  the  women  twittered,  and  the  long  note 
of  the  hautboys  went  through  the  room  like  a  scream  of 
interrogation. 

Domini  grew  hot  as  she  saw  the  look  that  came  into  the 
stranger's  face  when  the  woman  touched  his  knees. 

"  Go  and  tell  him  it's  money  she  wants !  "  she  whispered  to 
Batouch.  "  Go  and  tell  him!  " 

Batouch  got  up,  but  at  this  moment  a  roguish  Arab  boy,  who 
sat  by  the  stranger,  laughingly  spoke  to  him,  pointing  to  the 
woman.  The  stranger  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  found  a 
coin  and,  directed  by  the  roguish  youth,  stuck  it  upon  the 
dancer's  greasy  forehead.  At  once  she  sprang  to  her  feet.  The 
women  twittered.  The  music  burst  into  a  triumphant  melody, 
and  through  the  room  there  went  a  stir.  Almost  everyone  in  it 
moved  simultaneously.  One  man  raised  his  hand  to  his  hood 
and  settled  it  over  his  forehead.  Another  put  his  cigarette  to 
his  lips.  Another  picked  up  his  coffee-cup.  A  fourth,  who  was 
holding  a  flower,  lifted  it  to  his  nose  and  smelt  it.  No  one 
remained  quite  still.  With  the  stranger's  action  a  strain  had 
been  removed,  a  mental  tension  abruptly  loosened,  a  sense  of 
care  let  free  in  the  room.  Domini  felt  it  acutely.  The  last 
few  minutes  had  been  painful  to  her.  She  sighed  with  relief 
at  the  cessation  of  another's  agony.  For  the  stranger  had  cer- 
tainly— from  shyness  or  whatever  cause — been  in  agony  while 
the  dancer  kept  her  head  upon  his  knees. 

His  angel  had  been  in  fear,  perhaps,  while  his  devil 

But  Domini  tried  resolutely  to  turn  her  thoughts  from  the 
smiling  face. 

After  pressing  the  money  on  the  girl's  forehead  the  man  made 
a  movement  as  if  he  meant  to  leave  the  room,  but  once  again  the 
curious  indecision  which  Domini  had  observed  in  him  before  cut 


ii2  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

his  action,  as  it  were,  in  two,  leaving  it  half  finished.  As  the 
dancer,  turning,  wriggled  slowly  to  the  platform,  he  buttoned 
up  his  jacket  with  a  sort  of  hasty  resolution,  pulled  it  down  with 
a  jerk,  glanced  swiftly  round,  and  rose  to  his  feet.  Domini  kept 
her  eyes  on  him,  and  perhaps  they  drew  his,  for,  just  as  he  was 
about  to  step  into  the  narrow  aisle  that  led  to  the  door  he  saw 
her.  Instantly  he  sat  down  again,  turned  so  that  she  could  only 
see  part  of  his  face,  unbuttoned  his  jacket,  took  out  some  matches 
and  busied  himself  in  lighting  a  cigarette.  She  knew  he  had  felt 
her  concentration  on  him,  and  was  angry  with  herself.  Had  she 
really  a  spy  in  her?  Was  she  capable  of  being  vulgarly  curious 
about  a  man  ?  A  sudden  movement  of  Hadj  drew  her  attention. 
His  face  was  distorted  by  an  expression  that  seemed  half  angry, 
half  fearful.  Batouch  was  smiling  seraphically  as  he  gazed 
towards  the  platform.  Suzanne,  with  a  pinched-up  mouth, 
was  looking  virginally  at  her  lap.  Her  whole  attitude  showed 
her  consciousness  of  the  many  blazing  eyes  that  were  intently 
staring  at  her.  The  stomach  dance  which  she  had  just  been 
watching  had  amazed  her  so  much  that  she  felt  as  if  she  were 
the  only  respectable  woman  in  the  world,  and  as  if  no  one  would 
suppose  it  unless  she  hung  out  banners  white  as  the  walls  of 
Beni-Mora's  houses.  She  strove  to  do  so,  and,  meanwhile, 
from  time  to  time,  cast  sideway  glances  towards  the  platform  to 
see  whether  another  stomach  dance  was  preparing.  She  did  not 
see  Hadj's  excitement  or  the  poet's  malignant  satisfaction,  but 
she,  with  Domini,  saw  a  small  door  behind  the  platform  open, 
and  the  stout  Kabyle  appear  followed  by  a  girl  who  wras  robed 
in  gold  tissue,  and  decorated  with  cascades  of  golden  coins. 

Domini  guessed  at  once  that  this  was  Irena,  the  returned 
exile,  who  wished  to  kill  Hadj,  and  she  was  glad  that  a  new 
incident  had  occurred  to  switch  off  the  general  attention  from 
the  stranger. 

Irena  was  evidently  a  favourite.  There  was  a  grave  move- 
ment as  she  came  in,  a  white  undulation  as  all  the  shrouded 
forms  bent  slightly  forward  in  her  direction.  Only  Hadj 
caught  his  burnous  round  him  with  his  thin  fingers,  dropped  his 
chin,  shook  his  hood  down  upon  his  forehead,  leaned  back 
against  the  wall,  and,  curling  his  legs  under  him,  seemed  to  fall 
asleep.  But  beneath  his  brown  lids  and  long  black  lashes  his 
furtive  eyes  followed  every  movement  of  the  girl  in  the  sparkling 
robe. 

She  came  in  slowly  and  languidly,  with  a  heavy  and  cross 
expression  upon  her  face,  which  was  thin  to  emaciation  and 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  113 

painted  white,  with  scarlet  lips  and  darkened  eyes  and  eye- 
brows. Her  features  were  narrow  and  pointed.  Her  bones 
were  tiny,  and  her  body  was  so  slender,  her  waist  so  small, 
that,  with  her  flat  breast  and  meagre  shoulders,  she  looked 
almost  like  a  stick  crowned  with  a  human  face  and  hung  with 
brilliant  draperies.  Her  hair,  which  was  thick  and  dark  brown, 
was  elaborately  braided  and  covered  with  a  yellow  silk  handker- 
chief. Domini  thought  she  looked  consumptive,  and  was  bit- 
terly disappointed  in  her  appearance.  For  some  unknown 
reason  she  had  expected  the  woman  who  wished  to  kill  Hadj, 
and  who  obviously  inspired  him  with  fear,  to  be  a  magnificent 
and  glowing  desert  beauty.  This  woman  might  be  violent. 
She  looked  weary,  anaemic,  and  as  if  she  wished  to  go  to  bed, 
and  Domini's  contempt  for  Hadj  increased  as  she  looked  at  her. 
To  be  afraid  of  a  thin,  tired,  sleepy  creature  such  as  that  was 
too  pitiful.  But  Hadj  did  not  seem  to  think  so.  He  had  pulled 
his  hood  still  further  forward,  and  was  now  merely  a  bundle 
concealed  in  the  shade  of  Suzanne. 

Irena  stepped  on  to  the  platform,  pushed  the  girl  who  sat  at 
the  end  of  the  bench  till  she  moved  up  higher,  sat  down  in  the 
vacant  place,  drank  some  water  out  of  the  glass  nearest  to  her, 
and  then  remained  quite  still  staring  at  the  floor,  utterly  indif- 
ferent to  the  Arabs  who  were  devouring  her  with  their  eyes. 
No  doubt  the  eyes  of  men  had  devoured  her  ever  since  she  could 
remember.  It  was  obvious  that  they  meant  nothing  to  her, 
that  they  did  not  even  for  an  instant  disturb  the  current  of  her 
dreary  thoughts. 

Another  girl  was  dancing,  a  stout,  Oriental  Jewess  with  a 
thick  hooked  nose,  large  lips  and  bulging  eyes,  that  looked  as  if 
they  had  been  newly  scoured  with  emery  powder.  While  she 
danced  she  sang,  or  rather  shouted  roughly,  an  extraordinary 
melody  that  suggested  battle,  murder  and  sudden  death.  Care- 
less of  onlookers,  she  sometimes  scratched  her  head  or  rubbed  her 
nose  without  ceasing  her  contortions.  Domini  guessed  that 
this  was  the  girl  whom  she  had  seen  from  the  tower  dancing 
upon  the  roof  in  the  sunset.  Distance  and  light  had  indeed 
transformed  her.  Under  the  lamps  she  was  the  embodiment 
of  all  that  was  coarse  and  greasy.  Even  the  pitiful  slenderness 
of  Irena  seemed  attractive  when  compared  with  her  billowing 
charms,  which  she  kept  in  a  continual  commotion  that  was 
almost  terrifying. 

"  Hadj  is  nearly  dead  with  fear,"  whispered  Batouch,  com- 
placently. 


ii4  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

Domini's  lips  curled. 

"  Does  not  Madame  think  Irena  beautiful  as  the  moon  on 
the  waters  of  the  Oued  Beni-Mora?" 

"  Indeed  I  don't,"  she  replied  bluntly.  "  And  I  think  a  man 
who  can  be  afraid  of  such  a  little  thing  must  be  afraid  of  the 
children  in  the  street." 

"Little!     But  Irena  is  tall  as  a  female  palm  in  Ourlana." 

"Tall!" 

Domini  looked  at  her  again  more  carefully,  and  saw  that 
Batouch  spoke  the  truth.  Irena  was  unusually  tall,  but  her 
excessive  narrowness,  her  tiny  bones,  and  the  delicate  way  in 
which  she  held  herself  deceived  the  eye  and  gave  her  a  little 
appearance. 

"  So  she  is;  but  who  could  be  afraid  of  her?  Why,  I  could 
pick  her  up  and  throw  her  over  that  moon  of  yours." 

"  Madame  is  strong.  Madame'is  like  the  lioness.  But  Irena 
is  the  most  terrible  girl  in  all  Beni-Mora  if  she  loves  or  if  she 
is  angry,  the  most  terrible  in  all  the  Sahara." 

Domini  laughed. 

"  Madame  does  not  know  her,"  said  Batouch,  imperturbably. 
"  But  Madame  can  ask  the  Arabs.  Many  of  the  dancers  of 
Beni-Mora  are  murdered,  each  season  two  or  three.  But  no 
man  would  try  to  murder  Irena.  No  man  would  dare." 

The  poet's  calm  and  unimpassioned  way  of  alluding  to  the 
most  horrible  crimes  as  if  they  were  perfectly  natural,  and  in  no 
way  to  be  condemned  or  wondered  at,  amazed  Domini  even 
more  than  his  statement  about  Irena. 

"  Why  do  they  murder  the  dancers?  "  she  asked  quickly. 

"  For  their  jewels.  At  night,  in  those  little  rooms  with  the 
balconies  which  Madame  has  seen,  it  is  easy.  You  enter  in  to 
sleep  there.  You  close  your  eyes,  you  breathe  gently  and  a  little 
loud.  The  woman  hears.  She  is  not  afraid.  She  sleeps.  She 
dreams.  Her  throat  is  like  that  " — he  threw  back  his  head, 
exposing  his  great  neck.  "  Just  before  dawn  you  draw  your 
knife  from  your  burnous.  You  bend  down.  You  cut  the 
throat  without  noise.  You  take  the  jewels,  the  money  from 
the  box  by  the  bed.  You  go  down  quietly  with  bare  feet.  No 
one  is  on  the  stair.  You  unbar  the  door — and  there  before  you 
is  the  great  hiding-place." 

"  The  great  hiding-place !  " 

"  The  desert,  Madame." 

He  sipped  his  coffee.  Domini  looked  at  him,  fascinated. 
Suzanne  shivered.  She  had  been  listening.  The  loud  contralto 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  115 

cry  of  the  Jewess  rose  up,  with  its  suggestion  of  violence  and  of 
rough  indifference.  And  Domini  repeated  softly: 

"  The  great  hiding-place." 

With  every  moment  in  Beni-Mora  the  desert  seemed  to 
become  more — more  full  of  meaning,  of  variety,  of  mystery,  of 
terror.  Was  it  everything?  The  garden  of  God,  the  great 
hiding-place  of  murderers!  She  had  called  it,  on  the  tower, 
the  home  of  peace.  In  the  gorge  of  El-Akbara,  ere  he  prayed, 
Batouch  had  spoken  of  it  as  a  vast  realm  of  forgetfulness,  where 
the  load  of  memory  slips  from  the  weary  shoulders  and  vanishes 
into  the  soft  gulf  of  the 'sands. 

But  was  it  everything  then?  And  if  it  was  so  much  to  her 
already,  in  a  night  and  a  day,  what  would  it  be  when  she  knew 
it,  what  would  it  be  to  her  after  many  nights  and  many  days? 
She  began  to  feel  a  sort  of  terror  mingled  with  the  most  extraor- 
dinary attraction  she  had  ever  known. 

Hadj  crouched  right  back  against  the  wall.  The  voice  of  the 
Jewess  ceased  in  a  shout.  The  hautboys  stopped  playing.  Only 
the  tom-toms  roared. 

"  Hadj  can  be  happy  now,"  observed  Batouch  in  a  voice  of 
almost  satisfaction,  "  for  Irena  is  going  to  dance.  Look! 
There  is  the  little  Miloud  bringing  her  the  daggers." 

An  Arab  boy,  with  a  beautiful  face  and  a  very  dark  skin, 
slipped  on  to  the  platform  with  two  long,  pointed  knives  in  his 
hand.  He  laid  them  on  the  table  before  Irena,  between  the 
bouquets  of  orange  blossom,  jumped  lightly  down  and  dis- 
appeared. 

Directly  the  knives  touched  the  table  the  hautboy  players 
blew  a  terrific  blast,  and  then,  swelling  the  note,  till  it 
seemed  as  if  they  must  burst  both  themselves  and  their  instru- 
ments, swung  into  a  tremendous  and  magnificent  tune,  a  tune 
tingling  with  barbarity,  yet  such  as  a  European  could  have  sung 
or  written  down.  In  an  instant  it  gripped  Domini  and  excited 
her  till  she  could  hardly  breathe.  It  poured  fire  into  her  veins 
and  set  fire  about  her  heart.  It  was  triumphant  as  a  great  song 
after  war  in  a  wild  land,  cruel,  vengeful,  but  so  strong  and  so 
passionately  joyous  that  it  made  the  eyes  shine  and  the  blood 
leap,  and  the  spirit  rise  up  and  clamour  within  the  body,  clamour 
for  utter  liberty,  for  action,  for  wide  fields  in  which  to  roam, 
for  long  days  and  nights  of  glory  and  of  love,  for  intense  hours 
of  emotion  and  of  life  lived  with  exultant  desperation.  It  was 
a  melody  that  seemed  to  set  the  soul  of  Creation  dancing  before 
an  ark.  The  tom-toms  accompanied  it  with  an  irregular  but 


ii6  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

rhythmical  roar  which  Domini  thought  was  like  the  deep-voiced 
shouting  of  squadrons  of  fighting  men. 

Irena  looked  wearily  at  the  knives.  Her  expression  had  not 
changed,  and  Domini  was  amazed  at  her  indifference.  The  eyes 
of  everyone  in  the  room  were  fixed  upon  her.  Even  Suzanne 
began  to  be  less  virginal  in  appearance  under  the  influence  of 
this  desert  song  of  triumph.  Domini  did  not  let  her  eyes  stray 
any  more  towards  the  stranger.  For  the  moment  indeed  she 
had  forgotten  him.  Her  attention  was  fastened  upon  the  thin, 
consumptive-looking  creature  who  was  staring  at  the  two  knives 
laid  upon  the  table.  When  the  great  tune  had  been  played 
right  through  once,  and  a  passionate  roll  of  tom-toms  announced 
its  repetition,  Irena  suddenly  shot  out  her  tiny  arms,  brought 
her  hands  down  on  the  knives,  seized  them  and  sprang  to  her 
feet.  She  had  passed  from  lassitude  to  vivid  energy  with  an 
abruptness  that  was  almost  demoniacal,  and  to  an  energy  with 
which  both  mind  and  body  seemed  to  blaze.  Then,  as  the 
hautboys  screamed  out  the  tune  once  more,  she  held  the  knives 
above  her  head  and  danced. 

Irena  was  not  an  Ouled  Nail.  She  was  a  Kabyle  woman 
born  in  the  mountains  of  Djurdjura,  not  far  from  the  village  of 
Tamouda.  As  a  child  she  had  lived  in  one  of  those  chimneyless 
and  windowless  mud  cottages  with  red  tiled  roofs  which  are  so 
characteristic  a  feature  of  La  Grande  Kabylie.  She  had  climbed 
barefoot  the  savage  hills,  or  descended  into  the  gorges  yellow 
with  the  broom  plant  and  dipped  her  brown  toes  in  the  waters 
of  the  Sebaou.  How  had  she  drifted  so  far  from  the  sharp 
spurs  of  her  native  hills  and  from  the  ruddy-haired,  blue-eyed 
people  of  her  tribe?  Possibly  she  had  sinned,  as  the  Kabyle 
women  often  sin,  and  fled  from  the  wrath  that  she  would  under- 
stand, and  that  all  her  fierce  bravery  could  not  hope  to  conquer. 
Or  perhaps  with  her  Kabyle  blood,  itself  a  brew  composed  of 
various  strains,  Greek,  Roman,  as  well  as  Berber,  were  mingling 
some  drops  drawn  from  desert  sources,  which  had  manifested 
themselves  physically  in  her  dark  hair,  mentally  in  a  nomadic 
instinct  which  had  forbidden  her  to  rest  among  the  beauties  of 
Ait  Ouaguennoun,  whose  legendary  charm  she  did  not  possess. 
There  was  the  look  of  an  exile  in  her  face,  a  weariness  that 
dreamed,  perhaps,  of  distant  things.  But  now  that  she  danced 
that  fled,  and  the  gleam  of  flame-lit  steel  was  in  her  eyes. 

Tangled  and  vital  impressions  came  to  Domini  as  she  watched. 
Now  she  saw  Jael  and  the  tent,  and  the  nails  driven  into  the 
temples  of  the  sleeping  warrior.  Now  she  saw  Medea  in  the 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  117 

moment  before  she  tore  to  pieces  her  brother  and  threw  the 
bloody  fragments  in  Aetes's  path;  Clytemnestra's  face  while 
Agamemnon  was  passing  to  the  bath,  Delilah's  when  Samson 
lay  sleeping  on  her  knee.  But  all  these  imagined  faces  of  named 
women  fled  like  sand  grains  on  a  desert  wind  as  the  dance 
went  on  and  the  recurrent  melody  came  back  and  back  and 
back  with  a  savage  and  glorious  persistence.  They  were  too 
small,  too  individual,  and  pinned  the  imagination  down  too 
closely.  .This  dagger  dance  let  in  upon  her  a  larger  atmosphere, 
in  which  one  human  being  was  as  nothing,  even  a  goddess  or  a 
siren  prodigal  of  enchantments  was  a  little  thing  not  without  a 
narrow  meanness  of  physiognomy. 

She  looked  and  listened  till  she  saw  a  grander  procession 
troop  by,  garlanded  with  mystery  and  triumph :  War  as  a  shape 
with  woman's  eyes:  Night,  without  poppies,  leading  the  stars 
and  moon  and  all  the  vigorous  dreams  that  must  come  true: 
Love  of  woman  that  cannot  be  set  aside,  but  will  govern  the 
world  from  Eden  to  the  abyss  into  which  the  nations  fall  to 
the  outstretched  hands  of  God:  Death  as  Life's  leader,  with  a 
staff  from  which  sprang  blossoms  red  as  the  western  sky :  Savage 
Fecundity  that  crushes  all  barren  things  into  the  silent  dust: 
and  then  the  Desert. 

That  came  in  a  pale  cloud  of  sand,  with  a  pale  crowd  of  wor- 
shippers, those  who  had  received  gifts  from  the  Desert's  hands 
and  sought  for  more:  white-robed  Marabouts  who  had  found 
Allah  in  his  garden  and  become  a  guide  to  the  faithful  through 
all  the  circling  years:  murderers  who  had  gained  sanctuary 
with  barbaric  jewels  in  their  blood-stained  hands:  once  tortured 
men  and  women  who  had  cast  away  terrible  recollections  in 
the  wastes  among  the  dunes  and  in  the  treeless  purple  distances, 
and  who  had  been  granted  the  sweet  oases  of  forgetfulness  to 
dwell  in:  ardent  beings  who  had  striven  vainly  to  rest  content 
with  the  world  of  hills  and  valleys,  of  sea-swept  verges  and 
murmuring  rivers,  and  who  had  been  driven,  by  the  labouring 
soul,  on  and  on  towards  the  flat  plains  where  roll  for  ever  the 
golden  wheels  of  the  chariot  of  the  sun.  She  saw,  too,  the  winds 
that  are  the  Desert's  best-loved  children:  Health  with  shining 
eyes  and  a  skin  of  bronze :  Passion,  half  faun,  half  black:browed 
Hercules:  and  Liberty  with  upraised  arms,  beating  cymbals 
like  monstrous  spheres  of  fire. 

And  she  saw  palm  trees  waving,  immense  palm  trees  in  the 
south.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  travelled  as  far  away  from 
Beni-Mora  as  she  had  travelled  from  England  in  coming  to 


n8  THE   GARDEN   OF   ALLAH 

Beni-Mora.  She  made  her  way  towards  the  sun,  joining 
the  pale  crowd  of  the  Desert's  worshippers.  And  always,  as 
she  travelled,  she  heard  the  clashing  of  the  cymbals  of  Liberty. 
A  conviction  was  born  in  her  that  Fate  meant  her  to  know 
the  Desert  well,  strangely  well;  that  the  Desert  was  waiting 
calmly  for  her  to  come  to  it  and  receive  that  which  it  had  to 
give  to  her;  that  in  the  Desert  she  would  learn  more  of  the 
meaning  of  life  than  she  could  ever  learn  elsewhere.  It  seemed 
to  her  suddenly  that  she  understood  more  clearly  than  hitherto 
in  what  lay  the  intense,  the  over-mastering  and  hypnotic  attrac- 
tion exercised  already  by  the  Desert  over  her* nature.  In  the 
Desert  there  must  be,  there  was — she  felt  it — not  only  light  to 
warm  the  body,  but  light  to  illuminate  the  dark  places  of  the 
soul.  An  almost  fatalistic  idea  possessed  her.  She  saw  a 
figure — one  of  the  Messengers — standing  with  her  beside  the 
corpse  of  her  father  and  whispering  in  her  ear  "  Beni-Mora  " ; 
taking  her  to  the  map  and  pointing  to  the  word  there,  filling  her 
brain  and  heart  with  suggestions,  till — as  she  had  thought  almost 
without  reason,  and  at  haphazard — she  chose  Beni-Mora  as  the 
place  to  which  she  would  go  in  search  of  recovery,  of  self- 
knowledge.  It  had  been  pre-ordained.  The  Messenger  had 
been  sent.  The  Messenger  had  guided  her.  And  he  would 
come  again,  when  the  time  was  ripe,  and  lead  her  on  into  the 
Desert.  She  felt  it.  She  knew  it. 

She  looked  round  at  the  Arabs.  She  was  as  much  a  fatal- 
ist as  any  one  of  them.  She  looked  at  the  stranger.  What 
was  he? 

Abruptly  in  her  imagination  a  vision  rose.  She  gazed  once 
more  into  the  crowd  that  thronged  about  the  Desert  having 
received  gifts  at  the  Desert's  hands,  and  in  it  she  saw  the 
stranger. 

He  was  kneeling,  his  hands  were  stretched  out,  his  head  was 
bowed,  and  he  was  praying.  And,  while  he  prayed,  Liberty 
stood  by  him  smiling,  and  her  fiery  cymbals  were  like  the  aure- 
oles that  illumine  the  beautiful  faces  of  the  saints. 

For  some  reason  that  she  could  not  understand  her  heart 
began  to  beat  fast,  and  she  felt  a  burning  sensation  behind  her 
eyes. 

She  thought  that  this  extraordinary  music,  that  this  amazing 
dance,  excited  her  too  much. 

The  white  bundle  at  Suzanne's  side  stirred.  Irena,  holding 
the  daggers  above  her  head,  had  sprung  from  the  little  platform 
and  was  dancing  on  the  earthen  Jloor  in  the  midst  of  the  Arabs. 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  119 

Her  thin  body  shook  convulsively  in  time  to  the  music.  She 
marked  the  accents  with  her  shudders.  Excitement  had  grown 
in  her  till  she  seemed  to  be  in  a  feverish  passion  that  was  half 
exultant,  half  despairing.  In  her  expression,  in  her  movements, 
in  the  way  she  held  herself,  leaning  backwards  with  her  face 
looking  up,  her  breast  and  neck  exposed  as  if  she  offered  her  life, 
her  love  and  all  the  mysteries  in  her,  to  an  imagined  being 
who  dominated  her  savage  and  ecstatic  soul,  there  was  a  vivid 
suggestion  of  the  two  elements  in  Passion — rapture  and  melan- 
choly. In  her  dance  she  incarnated  passion  whole  by  convey- 
ing the  two  halves  that  compose  it.  Her  eyes  were  nearly 
closed,  as  a  wom^n  closes  them  when  she  has  seen  the  lips  of 
her  lover  descending  upon  hers.  And  her  mouth  seemed  to 
be  receiving  the  fiery  touch  of  another  mouth.  In  this  moment 
she  was  a  beautiful  woman  because  she  looked  like  womanhood. 
And  Domini  understood  why  the  Arabs  thought  her  more 
beautiful  than  the  other  dancers.  She  had  what  they  had  not — 
genius.  And  genius,  under  whatever  form,  shows  to  the  world 
at  moments  the  face  of  Aphrodite. 

She  came  slowly  nearer,  and  those  by  the  platform  turned 
round  to  follow  her  with  their  eyes.  Hadj's  hood  had  slipped 
completely  down  over  his  face,  and  his  chin  was  sunk  on  his 
chest.  Batouch  noticed  it  and  looked  angry,  but  Domini  had 
forgotten  both  the  comedy  of  the  two  cousins  and  the  tragedy 
of  Irena's  love  for  Hadj.  She  was  completely  under  the  fasci- 
nation of  this  dance  and  of  the  music  that  accompanied  it. 
Now  that  Irena  was  near  she  was  able  to  see  that,  without  her 
genius,  there  would  have  been  no  beauty  in  her  face.  It  was 
painfully  thin,  painfully  long  and  haggard.  Her  life  had  writ- 
ten a  fatal  inscription  across  it  as  their  life  writes  upon  the  faces 
of  poor  street-bred  children  the  one  word — Want.  As  they 
have  too  little  this  dancing  woman  had  had  too  much.  The 
sparkle  of  her  robe  of  gold  tissue  covered  with  golden  coins 
was  strong  in  the  lamplight.  Domini  looked  at  it  and  at  the 
two  sharp  knives  above  her  head,  looked  at  her  violent,  shud- 
dering movements,  and  shuddered  too,  thinking  of  Batouch's 
story  of  murdered  dancers.  It  was  dangerous  to  have  too  much 
in  Beni-Mora. 

Irena  was  quite  close  now.  She  seemed  so  wrapped  in  the 
ecstasy  of  the  dance  that  it  did  not  occur  to  Domini  at  first  that 
she  was  imitating  the  Ouled  Nail  who  had  laid  her  greasy  head 
upon  the  stranger's  knees.  The  abandonment  of  her  perform- 
ance was  so  great  that  it  was  difficult  to  remember  its  money 


120  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

value  to  her  and  to  Tahar,  the  fair  Kabyle.  Only  when  she 
was  actually  opposite  to  them  and  stayed  there,  still  perform- 
ing her  shuddering  dance,  still  holding  the  daggers  above  her 
head,  did  Domini  realise  that  those  half-closed,  passionate  eyes 
had  marked  the  stranger  woman,  and  that  she  must  add  one 
to  the  stream  of  golden  coins.  She  took  out  her  purse  but  did 
not  give  the  money  at  once.  With  the  pitiless  scrutiny  of  her 
sex  she  noticed  all  the  dancer's  disabilities.  She  was  certainly 
young,  but  she  was  very  worn.  Her  mouth  drooped.  At  the 
corners  of  her  eyes  there  were  tiny  lines  tending  downward. 
Her  forehead  had  what  Domini  secretly  called  a  martyred  look. 
Nevertheless,  she  was  savage  and  triumphant.  Her  thin  body 
suggested  force;  the  way  she  held  herself  consuming  passion. 
Even  so  near  at  hand,  even  while  she  was  pausing  for  money, 
and  while  her  eyes  were,  doubtless,  furtively  reading  Domini, 
she  shed  round  her  a  powerful  atmosphere,  which  stirred  the 
blood,  and  made  the  heart  leap,  and  created  longing  for 
unknown  and  violent  things.  As  Domini  watched  her  she 
felt  that  Irena  must  have  lived  at  moments  magnificently,  that 
despite  her  almost  shattered  condition  and  permanent  weari- 
ness—only cast  aside  for  the  moment  of  the  dance — she  must 
have  known  intense  joys,  that  so  long  as  she  lived  she  would 
possess  the  capacity  for  knowing  them  again.  There  was  some- 
thing burning  within  her  that  would  burn  on  so  long  as  she 
was  alive,  a  spark  of  nature  that  was  eternally  red  hot.  It 
was  that  spark  which  made  her  the  idol  of  the  Arabs  and  shed 
a  light  of  beauty  through  her  haggard  frame. 

The  spirit  blazed. 

Domini  put  her  hand  at  last  into  her  purse  and  took  out  a 
piece  of  gold.  She  was  just  going  to  give  it  to  Irena  when  the 
white  bundle  that  was  Hadj  made  a  sudden,  though  slight, 
movement,  as  if  the  thing  inside  it  had  shivered.  Irena  noticed 
it  with  her  half-closed  eyes.  Domini  leaned  forward  and  held 
out  the  money,  then  drew  back  startled.  Irena  had  changed 
her  posture  abruptly.  Instead  of  keeping  her  head  thrown  back 
and  exposing  her  long  throat,  she  lifted  it,  shot  it  forward. 
Her  meagre  bosom  almost  disappeared  as  she  bent  over.  Her 
arms  fell  to  her  sides.  Her  eyes  opened  wide  and  became  full 
of  a  sharp,  peering  intensity.  Her  vision  and  dreams  dropped 
out  of  her.  Now  she  was  only  fierce  and  questioning,  and 
horribly  alert.  She  was  looking  at  the  white  bundle.  It 
shifted  again.  She  sprang  upon  it,  showing  her  teeth,  caught 
hold  of  it.  With  a  swift  turn  of  her  thin  hands  she  tore  back 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  121 

the  hood,  and  out  of  the  bundle  came  Hadj's  head  and  face 
livid  with  fear.  One  of  the  daggers  flashed  and  came  up  at 
him.  He  leaped  from  the  seat  and  screamed.  Suzanne  echoed 
his  cry.  Then  the  whole  room  was  a  turmoil  of  white  garments 
and  moving  limbs.  In  an  instant  everybody  seemed  to  be  leap- 
ing, calling  out,  grasping,  struggling.  Domini  tried  to  get  up, 
but  she  was  hemmed  in,  and  could  not  make  a  movement  upward 
or  free  her  arms,  which  were  pressed  against  her  sides  by  the 
crowd  around  her.  For  a  moment  she  thought  she  was  going 
to  be  severely  hurt  or  suffocated.  She  did  not  feel  afraid,  but 
only  indignant,  like  a  boy  who  has  been  struck  in  the  face  and 
longs  to  retaliate.  Someone  screamed  again.  It  was  Hadj. 
Suzanne  was  on  her  feet,  but  separated  from  her  mistress. 
Batouch's  arm  was  round  her.  Domini  put  her  hands  on  the 
bench  and  tried  to  force  herself  up,  violently  setting  her  broad 
shoulders  against  the  Arabs  who  were  towering  over  her  and 
covering  her  head  and  face  with  their  floating  garments  as  they 
strove  to  see  the  fight  between  Hadj  and  the  dancer.  The  heat 
almost  stifled  her,  and  she  was  suddenly  aware  of  a  strong 
musky  smell  of  perspiring  humanity.  She  was  beginning  to 
pant  for  breath  when  she  felt  two  burning,  hot,  hard  hands 
come  down  on  hers,  fingers  like  iron  catch  hold  of  hers,  go 
under  them,  drag  up  her  hands.  She  could  not  see  who  had 
seized  her,  but  the  life  in  the  hands  that  were  on  hers  mingled 
with  the  life  in  her  hands  like  one  fluid  with  another,  and  seemed 
to  pass  on  till  she  felt  it  in  her  body,  and  had  an  odd  sensa- 
tion as  if  her  face  had  been  caught  in  a  fierce  grip,  and  her 
heart  too. 

Another  moment  and  she  was  on  her  feet  and  out  in  the 
moonlit  alley  between  the  little  white  houses.  She  saw  the  stars, 
and  the  painted  balconies  crowded  with  painted  women  looking 
down  towards  the  cafe  she  had  left  and  chattering  in  shrill 
voices.  She  saw  the  patrol  of  Tirailleurs  Indigenes  marching 
at  the  double  to  the  doorway  in  which  the  Arabs  were  still 
struggling.  Then  she  saw  that  the  traveller  was  beside  her. 
She  was  not  surprised. 

"  Thank  you  for  getting  me  out,"  she  said  rather  bluntly. 
"Where's  my  maid?" 

"  She  got  away  before  us  with  your  guide,  Madame." 

He  held  up  his  hands  and  looked  at  them  hard,  eagerly, 
questioningly. 

"You  weren't  hurt?" 

He  dropped  his  hands  quickly. 


122  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  Oh,  no,  it  wasn't " 

He  broke  off  the  sentence  and  was  silent.  Domini  stood 
still,  drew  a  long  breath  and  laughed.  She  still  felt  angry  and 
laughed  to  control  herself.  Unless  she  could  be  amused  at 
this  episode  she  knew  that  she  was  capable  of  going  back  to  the 
door  of  the  cafe  and  hitting  out  right  and  left  at  the  men  who 
had  nearly  suffocated  her.  Any  violence  done  to  her  body,  even 
an  unintentional  push  against  her  in  the  street — if  there  was 
real  force  in  it — seemed  to  let  loose  a  devil  in  her,  such  a  devil 
as  ought  surely  only  to  dwell  inside  a  man. 

"  What  people !  "  she  said.     "  What  wild  creatures  I  " 

She  laughed  again.  The  patrol  pushed  its  way  roughly  in  at 
the  doorway. 

"  The  Arabs  are  always  like  that,  Madame." 

She  looked  at  him,  then  she  said,  abruptly: 

"  Do  you  speak  English?  " 

Her  companion  hesitated.  It  was  perfectly  obvious  to  her 
that  he  was  considering  whether  he  should  answer  "  Yes  "  or 
"  No."  Such  hesitation  about  such  a  matter  was  very  strange. 
At  last  he  said,  but  still  in  French: 

"  Yes.'; 

And  directly  he  had  said  it  she  saw  by  his  face  that  he  wished 
he  had  said  "  No." 

From  the  cafe  the  Arabs  began  to  pour  into  the  street.  The 
patrol  was  clearing  the  place.  The  women  leaning  over  the 
balconies  cried  out  shrilly  to  learn  the  exact  history  of  the 
tumult,  and  the  men  standing  underneath,  and  lifting  up  their 
bronzed  faces  in  the  moonlight,  replied  in  violent  voices,  gesticu- 
lating vehemently  while  their  hanging  sleeves  fell  back  from 
their  hairy  arms. 

"  I  am  an  Englishwoman,"  Domini  said. 

But  she  too  felt  obliged  to  speak  still  in  French,  as  if  a 
sudden  reserve  told  -her  to  do  so.  He  said  nothing.  They  were 
standing  in  quite  a  crowd  now.  It  swayed,  parted  suddenly, 
and  the  soldiers  appeared  holding  Irena.  Hadj  followed  be- 
hind, shouting  as  if  in  a  frenzy  of  passion.  There  was  some 
blood  on  one  of  his  hands  and  a  streak  of  blood  on  the  front  of 
»the  loose  shirt  he  wore  under  his  burnous.  He  kept  on  shoot- 
ing out  his  arms  towards  Irena  as  he  walked,  and  frantically 
appealing  to  the  Arabs  round  him.  When  he  saw  the  women  on 
their  balconies  he  stopped  for  a  moment  and  called  out  to  them 
like  a  man  beside  himself.  A  Tirailleur  pushed  him  on.  The 
women,  who  had  been  quiet  to  hear  him,  burst  forth  again  into 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  123 

a  paroxysm  of  chatter,  Irena  looked  utterly  indifferent  and 
walked  feebly.  The  little  procession  disappeared  in  the  moon- 
light accompanied  by  the  crowd. 

"  She  has  stabbed  Hadj,"  Domini  said.  "  Batouch  will  be 
glad." 

She  did  not  feel  as  if  she  were  sorry.  Indeed,  she  thought 
she  was  glad  too.  That  the  dancer  should  try  to  do  a  thing 
and  fail  would  have  seemed  contradictory.  And  the  streak  of 
blood  she  had  just  seen  seemed  to  relieve  her  suddenly  and  to 
take  from  her  all  anger.  Her  self-control  returned. 

"  Thank  you  once  more,"  she  said  to  her  companion.  "  Good- 
night." 

She  remembered  the  episode  of  the  tower  that  afternoon,  and 
resolved  to  take  a  definite  line  this  time,  and  not  to  run 
the  chance  of  a  second  desertion.  She  started  off  down  the 
street,  but  found  him  walking  beside  her  in  silence.  She 
stopped. 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  getting  me  out,"  she 
said,  looking  straight  at  him.  "  And  now,  good-night." 

Almost  for  the  first  time  he 'endured  her  gaze  without  any 
uncertainty,  and  she  saw  that  though  he  might  be  hesitating, 
uneasy,  even  contemptible — as  when  he  hurried  down  the  road 
in  the  wake  of  the  negro  procession — he  could  also  be  a  dogged 
man. 

"  I'll  go  with  you,  Madame,"  he  said. 

"Why?" 

"  It's  night." 

"  I'm  not  afraid." 

"  I'll  go  with  you,  Madame." 

He  said  it  again  harshly  and  kept  his  eyes  on  her,  frowning. 

"  And  if  I  refuse  ?  "  she  said,  wondering  whether  she  was 
going  to  refuse  or  not. 

"  I'll  follow  you,  Madame." 

She  knew  by  the  look  on  his  face  that  he,  too,  was  thinking  of 
what  had  happened  in  the  afternoon.  Why  should  she  wish  to 
deprive  him  of  the  reparation  he  was  anxious  to  make — obvi- 
ously anxious  in  an  almost  piteously  determined  way?  It  was 
poor  pride  in  her,  a  mean  little  feeling. 

"  Come  with  me,"  she  said. 

They  went  on  together. 

The  Arabs,  stirred  up  by  the  fracas  in  Tahar's  cafe,  were 
seething  with  excitement,  and  several  of  them,  gathered  together 
in  a  little  crowd,  were  quarrelling  and  shouting  at  the  end  of  the 


124  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

street  near  the  statue  of  the  Cardinal.  Domini's  escort  saw 
them  and  hesitated. 

"  I  think,  Madame,  it  would  be  better  to  take  a  side  street," 
he  said. 

"  Very  well.  Let  us  go  to  the  left  here.  It  is  bound  to  bring 
us  to  the  hotel  as  it  runs  parallel  to  the  house  of  the  sand 
diviner." 

He  started. 

"  The  sand  diviner?  "  he  said  in  his  low,  strong  voice. 

"  Yes." 

She  walked  on  into  a  tiny  alley.     He  followed  her. 

"  You  haven't  seen  the  thin  man  with  the  bag  of  sand?  " 

"  No,  Madame." 

"  He  reads  your  past  in  sand  from  the  desert  and  tells  what 
your  future  will  be." 

The  man  made  no  reply. 

"  Will  you  pay  him  a  visit  ?  "  Domini  asked  curiously. 

"  No,  Madame.     I  do  not  care  for  such  things." 

Suddenly  she  stood  still. 

"  Oh,  look!"  she  said.  "How  strange!  And  there  are 
others  all  down  the  street." 

In  the  tiny  alley  the  balconies  of  the  houses  nearly  met.  No 
figures  leaned  on  their  railings.  No  chattering  voices  broke  the 
furtive  silence  that  prevailed  in  this  quarter  of  Beni-Mora.  The 
moonlight  was  fainter  here,  obscured  by  the  close-set  buildings, 
and  at  the  moment  there  was  not  an  Arab  in  sight.  The  sense 
of  loneliness  and  peace  was  profound,  and  as  the  rare  windows 
of  the  houses,  minute  and  protected  by  heavy  gratings,  were 
dark,  it  had  seemed  to  Domini  at  first  as  if  all  the  inhabitants 
were  in  bed  and  asleep.  But,  in  passing  on,  she  had  seen  a 
faint  and  blanched  illumination ;  then  another ;  the  vague  vision 
of  an  aperture ;  a  seated  figure  making  a  darkness  against  white- 
ness; a  second  aperture  and  seated  figure.  She  stopped  and 
stood  still.  The  man  stood  still  beside  her. 

The  alley  was  an  alley  of  women.  In  every  house  on  either 
side  of  the  way  a  similar  picture  of  attentive  patience  was 
revealed:  a  narrow  Moorish  archway  with  a  wooden  door  set 
back  against  the  wall  to  show  a  steep  and  diminutive  staircase 
winding  up  into  mystery;  upon  the  highest  stair  a  common 
candlestick  with  a  lit  candle  guttering  in  it,  and,  immediately 
below,  a  girl,  thickly  painted,  covered  with  barbarous  jewels 
and  magnificently  dressed,  her  hands,  tinted  with  henna,  folded 
in  her  lap,  her  eyes  watching  under  eyebrows  heavily  dark- 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  125 

enecl,  and  prolonged  until  they  met  just  above  the  bridge  of 
the  nose,  to  which  a  number  of  black  dots  descended;  her 
naked,  brown  ankles  decorated  with  large  circlets  of  gold  or 
silver.  The  candle  shed  upon  each  watcher  a  faint  light  that 
half  revealed  her  and  left  her  half  concealed  upon  her  white 
staircase  bounded  by  white  walls.  And  in  her  absolute  silence, 
absolute  stillness,  each  one  was  wholly  mysterious  as  she  gazed 
ceaselessly  out  towards  the  empty,  narrow  street. 

The  woman  before  whose  dwelling  Domini  had  stopped 
was  an  Ouled  Nail,  with  a  square  headdress  of  coloured  hand- 
kerchiefs and  feathers,  a  pink  and  silver  shawl,  a  blue  skirt 
of  some  thin  material  powdered  with  silver  flowers,  and  a 
broad  silver  belt  set  with  squares  of  red  coral.  She  was  sit- 
ting upright,  and  would  have  looked  exactly  like  an  idol  set 
up  for  savage  worship  had  not  her  long  eyes  gleamed  and 
moved  as  she  solemnly  returned  the  gaze  of  Domini  and  of 
the  man  who  stood  a  little  behind  looking  over  her  shoulder. 

When  Domini  stopped  and  exclaimed  she  did  not  realise  to 
what  this  street  was  dedicated,  why  these  women  sat  in 
watchful  silence,  each  one  alone  on  her  stair  waiting  in  the 
night.  But  as  she  looked  and  saw  the  gaudy  finery  she  be- 
gan to  understand.  And  had  she  remained  in  doubt  an 
incident  now  occurred  which  must  have  enlightened  her. 

A  great  gaunt  Arab,  one  of  the  true  desert  men,  almost 
black,  with  high  cheek  bones,  hollow  cheeks,  fierce  falcon's 
eyes  shining  as  if  with  fever,  long  and  lean  limbs  hard  as  iron, 
dressed  in  a  rough,  sacklike  brown  garment,  and  wearing  a 
turban  bound  with  cords  of  camel's  hair,  strode  softly  down 
the  alley,  slipped  in  front  of  Domini,  and  went  up  to  the 
woman,  holding  out  something  in  his  scaly  hand.  There  was 
a  brief  colloquy.  The  woman  stretched  her  arm  up  the  stair- 
case, took  the  candle,  held  it  to  the  man's  open  hand,  and  bent 
over  counting  the  money  that  lay  in  the  palm.  She  counted 
it  twice  deliberately.  Then  she  nodded.  She  got  up,  turned, 
holding  the  candle  above  her  square  headdress,  and  went 
slowly  up  the  staircase  followed  by  the  Arab,  who  grasped 
his  coarse  draperies  and  lifted  them,  showing  his  bare  legs. 
The  two  disappeared  without  noise  into  the  darkness,  leaving 
the  stairway  deserted,  its  white  steps,  its  white  walls  faintly 
lit  by  the  moon. 

The  woman  had  not  once  looked  at  the  man,  but  only  at  the 
money  in  his  scaly  hand. 

Domini  felt  hot  and  rather  sick.     She  wondered  why  she 


126  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

had  stood  there  watching.  Yet  she  had  not  been  able  to  turn 
away.  Now,  as  she  stepped  back  into  the  middle  of  the  alley 
and  walked  on  with  the  man  beside  her  she  wondered  what 
he  was  thinking  of  her.  She  could  not  talk  to  him  any  more. 
She  was  too  conscious  of  the  lighted  stairways,  one  after 
one,  succeeding  each  other  to  right  and  left  of  them,  of  the 
still  figures,  of  the  watching  eyes  in  which  the  yellow  rays  of 
the  candles  gleamed.  Her  companion  did  not  speak;  but  as 
they  walked  he  glanced  furtively  from  one  side  to  the  other, 
then  stared  down  steadily  on  the  white  road.  When  they 
turned  to  the  right  and  came  out  by  the  gardens,  and  Domini 
saw  the  great  tufted  heads  of  the  palms  black  against  the 
moon,  she  felt  relieved  and  was  able  to  speak  again. 

"  I  should  like  you  to  know  that  I  am  quite  a  stranger  to  all 
African  things  and  people,"  she  said.  "  That  is  why  I  am 
liable  to  fall  into  mistakes  in  such  a  place  as  this.  Ah,  there 
is  the  hotel,  and  my  maid  on -the  verandah.  I  want  to  thank 
you  again  for  looking  after  me." 

They  were  at  a  few  steps  from  the  hotel  door  in  the  road. 
The  man  stopped,  and  Domini  stopped  too. 

"  Madame,"  he  said  earnestly,  with  a  sort  of  hardly  con- 
trolled excitement,  "  I — I  am  glad.  I  was  ashamed — I  was 
ashamed." 

"Why?" 

"Of  my  conduct — of  my  awkwardness.  But  you  will  for- 
give it.  I  am  not  accustomed  to  the  society  of  ladies — like 
you.  Anything  I  have  done  I  have  not  done  out  of  rudeness. 
That  is  all  I  can  say.  I  have  not  done  it  out  of  rudeness." 

He  seemed  to  be  almost  trembling  with  agitation. 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  she  said.     "  Besides,  it  was  nothing." 

"  Oh,  no,  it  wras  abominable.  I  understand  that.  I  am 
not  so  coarse-fibred  as  not  to  understand  that." 

Domini  suddenly  felt  that  to  take  his  view  of  the  matter, 
exaggerated  though  it  was,  would  be  the  kindest  course,  even 
the  most  delicate. 

"  You  were  rude  to  me,"  she  said,  "  but  I  shall  forget  it 
from  this  moment." 

She  held  out  her  hand.  He  grasped  it,  and  again  she  felt 
as  if  a  furnace  were  pouring  its  fiery  heat  upon  her. 

"  Good-night." 

"  Good-night,  Madame.     Thank  you." 

She  was  going  away  to  the  hotel  door,  but  she  stopped. 

"  My  name  is  Domini  Enfilden,"  she  said  in  English. 


THE  VOICE  OF   PRAYER  127 

The  man  stood  in  the  road  looking  at  her.  She  waited. 
She  expected  him  to  tell  her  his  name.  There  was  a  silence. 
At  last  he  said  hesitatingly,  in  English  with  a  very  slight  foreign 
accent : 

"  My  name  is  Boris — Boris  Androvsky." 

"  Batouch  told  me  you  were  English,"  she  said. 

"  My  mother  was  English,  but  my  father  was  a  Russian 
from  Tiflis.  That  is  my  name." 

There  was  a  sound  in  his  voice  as  if  he  were  insisting  like 
a  man  making  an  assertion  not  readily  to  be  believed. 

"  Good-night,"  Domini  said  again. 

And  she  went  away  slowly,  leaving  him  standing  on  the 
moonlit  road. 

He  did  not  remain  there  long,  nor  did  he  follow  her  into 
the  hotel.  After  she  had  disappeared  he  stood  for  a  little 
while  gazing  up  at  the  deserted  verandah  upon  which  the 
moonrays  fell.  Then  he  turned  and  looked  towards  the  vil- 
lage, hesitated,  and  finally  walked  slowly  back  towards  the 
tiny,  shrouded  alley  in  which  on  the  narrow  staircases  the 
painted  girls  sat  watching  in  the  night. 


CHAPTER    IX      . 

ON  the  following  morning  Batouch  arrived  with  a  handsome 
grey  Arab  horse  for  Domini  to  try.  He  had  been  very  peni- 
tent the  night  before,  and  Domini  had  forgiven  easily  enough 
his  pre-occupation  with  Suzanne,  who  had  evidently  made  a 
strong  impression  upon  his  susceptible  nature.  Hadj  had  been 
but  slightly  injured  by  Irena,  but  did  not  appear  at  the  hotel 
for  a  very  sufficient  reason.  Both  the  dancer  and  he  were 
locked  up  for  the  moment,  till  the  Guardians  of  Justice  in 
Beni-Mora  had  made  up  their  minds  who  should  be  held  re- 
sponsible for  the  uproar  of  the  previous  night.  That  the  real 
culprit  was  the  smiling  poet  was  not  likely  to  occur  to  them, 
and  did  not  seem  to  trouble  him.  When  Domini  inquired 
after  Hadj  he  showed  majestic  indifference,  and  when  she 
hinted  at  his  crafty  share  in  the  causing  of  the  tragedy  he 
calmly  replied: 

"  Hadj-ben-Ibrahim  will  know  from  henceforth  whether 
the  Mehari  with  the  swollen  tongue  can  bite." 

Then,  leaping  upon  the  horse,  whose  bridle  he  was  holding, 
he  forced  it  to  rear,  caracole  and  display  its  spirit  and  its 


128  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

paces  before  Domini,  sitting  it  superbly,  and  shooting  many  sly 
glances  at  Suzanne,  who  leaned  over  the  parapet  of  the  ver- 
andah watching,  with  a  rapt  expression  on  her  face. 

Domini  admired  the  horse,  but  wished  to  mount  it  herself 
before  coming  to  any  conclusion  about  it.  She  had  brought 
her  own  saddle  with  her  and  ordered  Batouch  to  put  it  on 
the  animal.  Meanwhile  she  went  upstairs  to  change  into  her 
habit.  When  she  came  out  again  on  to  the  verandah  Boris 
Androvsky  was  there,  standing  bare-headed  in  the  sun  and 
looking  down  at  Batouch  and  the  horse.  He  turned  quickly, 
greeted  Domini  with  a  deep  bow,  then  examined  her  costume 
with  wondering,  startled  eyes. 

"  I'm  going  to  try  that  horse,"  she  said  with  deliberate 
friendliness.  "  To  see  if  I'll  buy  him.  Are  you  a  judge  of  a 
horse?" 

"  I  fear  not,  Madame." 

She  had  spoken  in  English  and  he  replied  in  the  same 
language.  She  was  standing  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  holding 
her  whip  lightly  in  her  right  hand.  Her  splendid  figure  was 
defined  by  the  perfectly-fitting,  plain  habit,  and  she  saw  him 
look  at  it  with  a  strange  expression  in  his  eyes,  an  .admiration 
that  was  almost  ferocious,  and  that  was  yet  respectful  and 
even  pure.  It  was  like  the  glance  of  a  passionate  schoolboy 
verging  on  young  manhood,  whose  natural  instincts  were  astir 
but  whose  temperament  was  unwarped  by  vice;  a  glance  that 
was  a  burning  tribute,  and  that  told  a  whole  story  of  sex  and 
surely  of  hot,  inquiring  ignorance — strange  glances  of  a  man 
no  longer  even  very  young.  It  made  something  in  her  leap 
and  quiver.  She  was  startled  and  almost  angered  by  that, 
but  not  by  the  eyes  that  caused  it. 

"  Au  revoir"  she  said,  turning  to  go  down. 

"  May  I — might  I  see  you  get  up  ?  "  said  Androvsky. 

"Get  up!"  she  said. 

"Up  on  the  horse?" 

She  could  not  help  smiling  at  his  fashion  of  expressing  the 
act  of  mounting.  He  was  not  a  sportsman  evidently,  despite 
his  muscular  strength. 

"  Certainly,  if  you  like.     Come  along." 

Without  thinking  of  it  she  spoke  rather  as  to  a  schoolboy, 
not  with  superiority,  but  with  the  sort  of  bluffness  age  some- 
times uses  good-naturedly  to  youth.  He  did  not  seem  to 
resent  it  and  followed  her  down  to  the  arcade. 

The  side  saddle  was  on  and  the  poet  held  the  grey  by  the 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  129 

bridle.  Some  Arab  boys  had  assembled  under  the  arcade  to 
see  what  was  going  forward.  The  Arab  waiter  lounged  at 
the  door  with  the  tassel  of  his  fez  swinging  against  his  pale 
cheek.  The  horse  fidgetted  and  tugged  against  the  rein,  lift- 
ing his  delicate  feet  uneasily  from  the  ground,  flicking  his 
narrow  quarters  with  his  long  tail,  and  glancing  sideways  with 
his  dark  and  brilliant  eyes,  which  were  alive  with  a  nervous 
intelligence  that  was  almost  hectic.  Domini  went  up  to  him 
and  caressed  him  with  her  hand.  He  reared  up  and  snorted. 
His  whole  body  seemed  a-quiver  with  the  desire  to  gallop 
furiously  away  alone  into  some  far  distant  place. 

Androvsky  stood  near  the  waiter,  looking  at  Domini  and  at 
the  horse  with  wonder  and  alarm  in  his  eyes. 

The  animal,  irritated  by  inaction,  began  to  plunge  violently 
and  to  get  out  of  hand. 

"  Give  me  the  reins,"  Domini  said  to  the  poet.  "  That's  it. 
Now  put  your  hand  for  me." 

Batouch  obeyed.  Her  foot  just  touched  his  hand  and  she 
was  in  the  saddle. 

Androvsky  sprang  forward  on  to  the  pavement.  His 
eyes  were  blazing  with  anxiety.  She  saw  it  and  laughed 
gaily. 

"  Oh,  he's  not  vicious,"  she  said.  "  And  vice  is  the  only 
thing  that's  dangerous.  His  mouth  is  perfect,  but  he's  nerv- 
ous and  wants  handling.  I'll  just  take  him  up  the  gardens 
and  back." 

She  had  been  reining  him  in.  Now  she  let  him  go,  and 
galloped  up  the  straight  track  between  the  palms  towards  the 
station.  The  priest  had  come  out  into  his  little  garden  with 
Bous-Bous,  and  leaned  over  his  brushwood  fence  to  look  after 
her.  Bous-Bous  barked  in  a  light  soprano.  The  Arab  boys 
jumped  on  their  bare  toes,  and  one  of  them,  who  was  a  boot- 
black, waved  his  board  over  his  shaven  head.  The  Arab  waiter 
smiled  as  if  with  satisfaction  at  beholding  perfect  competence. 
But  Androvsky  stood  quite  still  looking  down  the  dusty  road 
at  the  diminishing  forms  of  horse  and  rider,  and  when  they 
disappeared,  leaving  behind  them  a  light  cloud  of  sand  films 
whirling  in  the  sun,  he  sighed  heavily  and  dropped  his  chin 
on  his  chest  as  if  fatigued. 

"  I  can  get  a  horse  for  Monsieur  too.  Would  Monsieur 
like  to  have  a  horse?" 

It  was  the  poet's  amply  seductive  voice.    Androvsky  started. 

"  I  don't  ride,"  he  said  curtly. 


i3o  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  I  will  teach  Monsieur.  I  am  the  best  teacher  in  Beni- 
Mora.  In  three  lessons  Monsieur  will " 

"  I  don't  ride,  I  tell  you." 

Androvsky  was  looking  angry.  He  stepped  out  into  the 
road.  Bous-Bous,  who  was  now  observing  Nature  at  the 
priest's  garden  gate,  emerged  with  some  sprightliness  and 
trotted  towards  him,  evidently  with  the  intention  of  making 
his  acquaintance.  Coming  up  to  him  the  little  dog  raised  his 
head  and  uttered  a  short  bark,  at  the  same  time  wagging  his 
tail  in  a  kindly,  though  not  effusive  manner.  Androvsky 
looked  down,  bent  quickly  and  patted  him,  as  only  a  man 
really  fond  of  animals  and  accustomed  to  them  knows  how  to 
pat.  Bous-Bous  was  openly  gratified.  He  began  to  wriggle 
affectionately.  The  priest  in  his  garden  smiled.  Androvsky 
had  not  seen  him  and  went  on  playing  with  the  dog,  who  now 
made  preparations  to  lie  down  on  his  curly  back  in  the  road 
in  the  hope  of  being  tickled,  a  process  he  was  an  amateur  of. 
Still  smiling,  and  with  a  friendly  look  on  his  face,  the  priest 
came  out  of  his  garden  and  approached  the  playmates. 

"  Good  morning,  M'sieur,"  he  said  politely,  raising  his  hat. 
"  I  see  you  like  dogs." 

Androvsky  lifted  himself  up,  leaving  Bous-Bous  in  a  prayerful 
attitude,  his  paws  raised  devoutly  towards  the  heavens.  When 
he  saw  that  it  was  the  priest  who  had  addressed  him  his  face 
changed,  hardened  to  grimness,  and  his  lips  trembled  slightly. 

"  That's  my  little  dog,"  the  priest  continued  in  a  gentle  voice. 
"  He  has  evidently  taken  a  great  fancy  to  you." 

Batouch  was  watching  Androvsky  under  the  arcade,  and  noted 
the  sudden  change  in  his  expression  and  his  whole  bearing. 

"  I — I  did  not  know  he  was  your  dog,  Monsieur,  or  I  should 
not  have  interfered  with  him,"  said  Androvsky. 

Bous-Bous  jumped  up  against  his  leg.  He  pushed  the  little 
dog  rather  roughly  away  and  stepped  back  to  the  arcade.  The 
priest  looked  puzzled  and  slightly  hurt.  At  this  moment  the  soft 
thud  of  horse's  hoofs  was  audible  on  the  road  and  Domini  came 
cantering  back  to  the  hotel.  Her  eyes  were  sparkling,  her  face 
was  radiant.  She  bowed  to  the  priest  and  reined  up  before  the 
hotel  door,  where  Androvsky  was  standing. 

"  I'll  buy  him,"  she  said  to  Batouch,  who  swelled  with  satis- 
faction at  the  thought  of  his  commission.  "  And  I'll  go  for  a 
long  ride  now — out  into  the  desert." 

"  You  will  not  go  alone,  Madame?  " 

It  was  the  priest's  voice.     She  smiled  down  at  him  gaily. 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  131 

"  Should  I  be  carried  off  by  nomads,  Monsieur?  " 

"  It  would  not  be  safe  for  a  lady,  believe  me." 

Batouch  swept  forward  to  reassure  the  priest. 

"  I  am  Madame's  guide.  I  have  a  horse  ready  saddled  to 
accompany  Madame.  I  have  sent  for  it  already,  M'sieur." 

One  of  the  little  Arab  boys  was  indeed  visible  running  with 
all  his  might  towards  the  Rue  Berthe.  Domini's  face  suddenly 
clouded.  The  presence  of  the  guide  would  take  all  the  edge  off 
her  pleasure,  and  in  the  short  gallop  she  had  just  had  she  had 
savoured  its  keenness.  She  was  alive  with  desire  to  be  happy. 

"  I  don't  need  you,  Batouch,"  she  said. 

But  the  poet  was  inexorable,  backed  up  by  the  priest. 

' '  It  is  my  duty  to  accompany  Madame.  I  am  responsible  for 
her  safety." 

"  Indeed,  you  cannot  go  into  the  desert  alone,"  said  the 
priest. 

Domini  glanced  at  Androvsky,  who  was  standing  silently 
under  the  arcade,  a  little  withdrawn,  looking  uncomfortable  and 
self-conscious.  She  remembered  her  thought  on  the  tower  of  the 
dice-thrower,  and  of  how  the  presence  of  the  stranger  had  seemed 
to  double  her  pleasure  then.  Up  the  road  from  the  Rue  Berthe 
came  the  noise  of  a  galloping  horse.  The  shoeblack  was  re- 
turning furiously,  his  bare  legs  sticking  out  on  either  side  of  a 
fiery  light  chestnut  with  a  streaming  mane  and  tail. 

"  Monsieur  Androvsky,"  she  said. 

He  started. 

"Madame?" 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  for  a  ride  into  the  desert?  " 

His  face  was  flooded  with  scarlet,  and  he  came  a  step  forward, 
looking  up  at  her. 

"  I !  "  he  said  with  an  accent  of  infinite  surprise. 

"Yes.     Will  you?" 

The  chestnut  thundered  up  and  was  pulled  sharply  back  on 
its  haunches.  Androvsky  shot  a  sideways  glance  at  it  and 
hesitated.  Domini  thought  he  was  going  to  refuse  and  wished 
she  had  not  asked  him,  wished  it  passionately. 

"  Never  mind,"  she  said,  almost  brutally  in  her  vexation  at 
what  she  had  done. 

"Batouch!" 

The  poet  was  about  to  spring  upon  the  horse  when  Androvsky 
caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"  I  will  go,"  he  said. 

Batouch  looked  vicious. 


1 32  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  But  Monsieur  told  me  he  did  not " 

He  stopped.  The  hand  on  his  arm  had  given  him  a  wrench 
that  made  him  feel  as  if  his  flesh  were  caught  between  steel 
pincers.  Androvsky  came  up  to  the  chestnut. 

"  Oh,  it's  an  Arab  saddle,"  said  Domini. 

"  It  does  not  matter,  Madame." 

His  face  was  stern. 

"  Are  you  accustomed  to  them?  " 

"  It  makes  no  difference." 

He  took  hold  of  the  rein  and  put  his  foot  in  the  high  stirrup, 
but  so  awkwardly  that  he  kicked  the  horse  in  the  side.  It 
plunged. 

"  Take  care !  "  said  Domini. 

Androvsky  hung  on,  and  climbed  somehow  into  the  saddle, 
coming  down  in  it  heavily,  with  a  thud.  The  horse,  now 
thoroughly  startled,  plunged  furiously  and  lashed  out  with  its 
hind  legs.  Androvsky  was  thrown  forward  against  the  high  red 
peak  of  the  saddle  with  his  hands  on  the  animal's  neck.  There 
was  a  struggle.  He  tugged  at  the  rein  violently.  The  horse 
jumped  back,  reared,  plunged  sideways  as  if  about  to  bolt. 
Androvsky  was  shot  off  and  fell  on  his  right  shoulder  heavily. 
Batouch  caught  the  horse  while  Androvsky  got  up.  He  was 
white  with  dust.  There  was  even  dust  on  his  face  and  in  his 
short  hair.  He  looked  passionate. 

"  You  see,"  Batouch  began,  speaking  to  Domini,  "  that  Mon- 
sieur cannot " 

"  Give  me  the  rein !  "  said  Androvsky. 

There  was  a  sound  in  his  deep  voice  that  was  terrible.  He 
was  looking  not  at  Domini,  but  at  the  priest,  who  stood  a  little 
aside  with  an  expression  of  concern  on  his  face.  Bous-Bous 
barked  with  excitement  at  the  conflict.  Androvsky  took  the 
rein,  and,  with  a  sort  of  furious  determination,  sprang  into  the 
saddle  and  pressed  his  legs  against  the  horse's  flanks.  It  reared 
up.  The  priest  moved  back  under  the  palm  trees,  the  Arab  boys 
scattered.  Batouch  sought  the  shelter  of  the  arcade,  and  the 
horse,  with  a  short,  whining  neigh  that  was  like  a  cry  of  temper, 
bolted  between  the  trunks  of  the  trees,  heading  for  the  desert, 
and  disappeared  in  a  flash. 

"  He  will  be  killed,"  said  the  priest. 

Bous-Bous  barked  frantically. 

"  It  is  his  own  fault,"  said  the  poet.  "  He  told  me  himself 
just  now  that  he  did  not  know  how  to  ride." 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  so?  "  Domini  exclaimed. 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  133 

"  Madame " 

But  she  was  gone,  following  Androvsky  at  a  slow  canter  lest 
she  should  frighten  his  horse  by  coming  up  behind  it.  She  came 
out  from  the  shade  of  the  palms  into  the  sun.  The  desert  lay 
before  her.  She  searched  it  eagerly  with  her  eyes  and  saw 
Androvsky's  horse  far  off  in  the  river  bed,  still  going  at  a  gallop 
towards  the  south,  towards  that  region  in  which  she  had  told  him 
on  the  tower  she  thought  that  peace  must  dwell.  It  was  as  if  he 
had  believed  her  words  blindly  and  was  frantically  in  chase  of 
peace.  And  she  pursued  him  through  the  blazing  sunlight. 
She  was  out  in  the  desert  at  length,  beyond  the  last  belt  of 
verdure,  beyond  the  last  line  of  palms.  The  desert  wind  was  on 
her  cheek  and  in  her  hair.  The  desert  spaces  stretched  around 
her.  Under  her  horse's  hoofs  lay  the  sparkling  crystals  on  the 
wrinkled,  sun-dried  earth.  The  red  rocks,  seamed  with  many 
shades  of  colour  that  all  suggested  primeval  fires  and  the  relent- 
less action  of  heat,  were  heaped  about  her.  But  her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  far-off  moving  speck  that  was  the  horse  carrying 
Androvsky  madly  towards  the  south.  The  light  and  fire,  the 
great  airs,  the  sense  of  the  chase  intoxicated  her.  She  struck  her 
horse  with  the  whip.  It  leaped,  as  if  clearing  an  immense 
obstacle,  came  down  lightly  and  strained  forward  into  the  shin- 
ing mysteries  at  a  furious  gallop.  The  black  speck  grew  larger. 
She  was  gaining.  The  crumbling,  cliff-like  bank  on  her  left 
showed  a  rent  in  which  a  faint  track  rose  sharply  to  the  flatness 
beyond.  She  put  her  horse  at  it  and  came  out  among  the  tiny 
humps  on  which  grew  the  halfa  grass  and  the  tamarisk  bushes. 
A  pale  sand  flew  up  here  about  the  horse's  feet.  Androvsky  was 
still  below  her  in  the  difficult  ground  where  the  water  came  in 
the  floods.  She  gained  and  gained  till  she  was  parallel  with  him 
and  could  see  his  bent  figure,  his  arms  clinging  to  the  peak  of  his 
red  saddle,  his  legs  set  forward  almost  on  to  his  horse's  withers 
by  the  short  stirrups  with  their  metal  toe-caps.  The  animal's 
temper  was  nearly  spent.  She  could  see  that.  The  terror  had 
gone  out  of  his  pace.  As  she  looked  she  saw  Androvsky  raise  his 
arms  from  the  saddle  peak,  catch  at  the  flying  rein,  draw  it  up, 
lean  against  the  saddle  back  and  pull  with  all  his  force.  The 
horse  stopped  dead. 

"  His  strength  must  be  enormous,"  Domini  thought  with  a 
startled  admiration. 

She  pulled  up  too  on  the  bank  above  him  and  gave  a  halloo. 
He  turned  his  head,  saw  her,  and  put  his  horse  at  the  bank, 
which  was  steep  here  and  without  any  gap. 


134  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  You  can't  do  it,"  she  called. 

In  reply  he  dug  the  heels  of  his  heavy  boots  into  the  horse's 
flanks  and  came  on  recklessly.  She  thought  the  horse  would 
either  refuse  or  try  to  get  up  and  roll  back  on  its  rider.  It 
sprang  at  the  bank  and  mounted  like  a  wild  cat.  There  was  a 
noise  of  falling  stones,  a  shower  of  scattered  earth-clods  dropping 
downward,  and  he  was  beside  her,  white  with  dust,  streaming 
with  sweat,  panting  as  if  the  labouring  breath  would  rip  his  chest 
open,  with  the  horse's  foam  on  his  forehead,  and  a  savage  and 
yet  exultant  gleam  in  his  eyes. 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence,  while  their  horses, 
standing  quietly,  lowered  their  narrow,  graceful  heads  and 
touched  noses  with  delicate  inquiry.  Then  she  said: 

"  I  almost  thought " 

She  stopped. 

"  Yes  ?  "  he  -said,  on  a  great  gasping  breath  that  was  like  a 
sob. 

"  — that  you  were  off  to  the  centre  of  the  earth,  or — I  don't 
know  what  I  thought.  You  aren't  hurt  ?  " 

"  No." 

He  could  only  speak  in  monosyllables  as  yet.  She  looked 
his  horse  over. 

"  He  won't  give  much  more  trouble  just  now.  Shall  we  ride 
back?" 

As  she  spoke  she  threw  a  longing  glance  at  the  far  desert,  at 
the  verge  of  which  was  a  dull  green  line  betokening  the  distant 
palms  of  an  oasis. 

Androvsky  shook  his  head. 

"  But  you "  She  hesitated.  "  Perhaps  you  aren't  accus- 
tomed to  horses,  and  with  that  saddle " 

He  shook  his  head  again,  drew  a  tremendous  breath  and 
said: 

"  I  don't  care,  I'll  go  on,  I  won't  go  back." 

He  put  up  one  hand,  brushed  the  foam  from  his  streaming 
forehead,  and  said  again  fiercely: 

"  I  won't  go  back." 

His  face  was  extraordinary  with  its  dogged,  passionate  ex- 
pression showing  through  the  dust  and  the  sweat;  like  the  face 
of  a  man  in  a  fight  to  the  death,  she  thought,  a  fight  with  fists. 
She  was  glad  at  his  last  words  and  liked  the  iron  sound  in  his 
voice. 

"  Come  on  then." 

And  they  began  to  ride  towards  the  dull  green  line  of  the 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  135 

oasis,  slowly  on  the  sandy  waste  among  the  little  round  humps 
where  the  dusty  cluster  of  bushes  grew. 

"  You  weren't  hurt  by  the  fall  ?  "  she  said.  "  It  looked  a  bad 
one." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  was.     I  don't  care  whether  I  was." 

He  spoke  almost  roughly. 

"  You  asked  me  to  ride  with  you,"  he  added.  "  I'll  ride  with 
you." 

She  remembered  what  Batouch  had  said.  There  was  pluck 
in  this  man,  pluck  that  surged  up  in  the  blundering  awkward- 
ness, the  hesitation,  the  incompetence  and  rudeness  of  him  like  a 
black  rock  out  of  the  sea.  She  did  not  answer.  They  rode  on, 
always  slowly.  His  horse,  having  had  its  will,  and  having  known 
his  strength  at  the  end  of  his  incompetence,  went  quietly,  though 
always  with  that  feathery,  light,  tripping  action  peculiar  to  pure- 
bred Arabs,  an  action  that  suggests  the  treading  of  a  spring 
board  rather  than  of  the  solid  earth.  And  Androvsky  seemed 
a  little  more  at  home  on  it,  although  he  sat  awkwardly  on 
the  chair-like  saddle,  and  grasped  the  rein  too  much  as  the 
drowning  man  seizes  the  straw.  Domini  rode  without  looking 
at  him,  lest  he  might  think  she  was  criticising  his  performance. 
When  he  had  rolled  in  the  dust  she  had  been  conscious  of  a 
sharp  sensation  of  contempt.  The  men  she  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  meet  all  her  life  rode,  shot,  played  games  as  a 
matter  of  course.  She  was  herself  an  athlete,  and,  like  nearly  all 
athletic  women,  inclined  to  be  pitiless  towards  any  man  who  was 
not  so  strong  and  so  agile  as  herself.  But  this  man  had  killed 
her  contempt  at  once  by  his  desperate  determination  not  to  be 
beaten.  She  knew  by  the  look  she  had  just  seen  in  his  eyes  that 
if  to  ride  with  her  that  day  meant  death  to  him  he  would  have 
done  it  nevertheless. 

The  womanhood  in  her  liked  the  tribute,  almost  more  than 
liked  it. 

"  Your  horse  goes  better  now,"  she  said  at  last  to  break  the 
silence. 

"Does  it?"  he  said. 

c]You  don't  know!" 

"  Madame,  I  know  nothing  of  horses  or  riding.  I  have  not 
been  on  a  horse  for  twenty-three  years." 

She  was  amazed. 

a  We  ought  to  go  back  then,"  she  exclaimed. 

"Why?  Other  men  ride — I  will  ride.  I  do  it  badly, 
Forgive  me." 


1 36  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  Forgive  you!  "  she  said.  "  I  admire  your  pluck.  But  why 
have  you  never  ridden  all  these  years  ?  " 

After  a  pause  he  answered : 

"  I — I  did  not — I  had  not  the  opportunity." 

His  voice  was  suddenly  constrained.  She  did  not  pursue 
the  subject,  but  stroked  her  horse's  neck  and  turned  her  eyes 
towards  the  dark  green  line  on  the  horizon.  Now  that  she  was 
really  out  in  the  desert  she  felt  almost  bewildered  by  it,  and  as  if 
she  understood  it  far  less  than  when  she  looked  at  it  from  Count 
Anteoni's  garden.  The  thousands  upon  thousands  of  sand 
humps,  each  crowned  with  its  dusty  dwarf  bush,  each  one  pre- 
cisely like  the  others,  agitated  her  as  if  she  were  confronted  by 
a  vast  multitude  of  people.  She  wanted  some  point  which 
would  keep  the  eyes  from  travelling  but  could  not  find  it,  and 
was  mentally  restless  as  the  swimmer  far  out  at  sea  who  is  pur- 
sued by  wave  on  wave,  and  who  sees  beyond  him  the  unceasing 
foam  of  those  that  are  pressing  to  the  horizon.  Whither  was 
she  riding?  Could  one  have  a  goal  in  this  immense  expanse? 
She  felt  an  overpowering  need  to  find  one,  and  looked  once  more 
at  the  green  line. 

"  Do  you  think  we  could  go  as  far  as  that?"  she  asked 
Androvsky,  pointing  with  her  whip. 

"  Yes,  Madame." 

"  It  must  be  an  oasis.     Don't  you  think  so?  " 

"  Yes.     I  can  go  faster." 

"  Keep  your  rein  loose.  Don't  pull  his  mouth.  You  don't 
mind  my  telling  you.  I've  been  with  horses  all  my  life." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  answered. 

"  And  keep  your  heels  more  out.  That's  much  better.  I'm 
sure  you  could  teach  me  a  thousand  things ;  it  will  be  kind  of  you 
to  let  me  teach  you  this." 

He  cast  a  strange  look  at  her.  There  was  gratitude  in  it, 
but  much  more;  a  fiery  bitterness  and  something  childlike  and 
helpless. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  teach,"  he  said. 

Their  horses  broke  into  a  canter,  and  with  the  swifter  move- 
ment Domini  felt  more  calm.  There  was  an  odd  lightness  in 
her  brain,  as  if  her  thoughts  were  being  shaken  out  of  it  like 
feathers  out  of  a  bag.  The  power  of  concentration  was  leaving 
her,  and  a  sensation  of  carelessness — surely  gipsy-like — came 
over  her.  Her  body,  dipped  in  the  dry  and  thin  air  as  in  a 
clear,  cool  bath,  did  not  suffer  from  the  burning  rays  of  the  sun, 
but  felt  radiant  yet  half  lazy  too.  They  went  on  and  on  in 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  137 

silence  as  intimate  friends  might  ride  together,  isolated  from  the 
world  and  content  in  each  other's  company,  content  enough  to 
have  no  need  of  talking.  Not  once  did  it  strike  Domini  as 
strange  that  she  should  go  far  out  into  the  desert  with  a  man  of 
whom  she  knew  nothing,  but  in  whom  she  had  noticed  disquiet- 
ing peculiarities.  She  was  naturally  fearless,  but  that  had  little 
to  do  with  her  conduct.  Without  saying  so  to  herself  she  felt 
she  could  trust  this  man. 

The  dark  green  line  showed  clearer  through  the  sunshine 
across  the  gleaming  flats.  It  was  possible  now  to  see  slight 
irregularities  in  it,  as  in  a  blurred  dash  of  paint  flung  across  a 
canvas  by  an  uncertain  hand,  but  impossible  to  distinguish  palm 
trees.  The  air  sparkled  as  if  full  of  a  tiny  dust  of  intensely 
brilliant  jewels,  and  near  the  ground  there  seemed  to  quiver  a 
maze  of  dancing  specks  of  light.  Everywhere  there  was  solitude, 
yet  everywhere  there  was  surely  a  ceaseless  movement  of  minute 
and  vital  things,  scarce  visible  sun  fairies  eternally  at  play. 

And  Domini's  careless  feeling  grew.  She  had  never  before 
experienced  so  delicious  a  recklessness.  Head  and  heart  were 
light,  reckless  of  thought  or  love.  Sad  things  had  no  meaning 
here  and  grave  things  no  place.  For  the  blood  was  full  of 
sunbeams  dancing  to  a  lilt  of  Apollo.  Nothing  mattered  here. 
Even  Death  wore  a  robe  of  gold  and  went  with  an  airy  step. 
Ah,  yes,  from  this  region  of  quivering  light  and  heat  the  Arabs 
drew  their  easy  and  lustrous  resignation.  Out  here  one  was  in 
the  hands  of  a  God  who  surely  sang  as  He  created  and  had  not 
created  fear. 

Many  minutes  passed,  but  Domini  was  careless  of  time  as  of 
all  else.  The  green  line  broke  into  feathery  tufts,  broadened 
into  a  still  far-off  dimness  of  palms. 

"Water!" 

Androvsky's  voice  spoke  as  if  startled.  Domini  pulled  up. 
Their  horses  stood  side  by  side,  and  at  once,  with  the  cessation 
of  motion,  the  mysticism  of  the  desert  came  upon  them  and  the 
marvel  of  its  silence,  and  they  seemed  to  be  set  there  in  a  wonder- 
ful dream,  themselves  and  their  horses  dreamlike. 

"  Water!  "  he  said  again. 

He  pointed,  and  along  the  right-hand  edge  of  the  oasis 
Domini  saw  grey,  calm  waters.  The  palms  ran  out  into  them 
and  were  bathed  by  them  softly.  And  on  their  bosom  here  and 

there  rose  small,  dim  islets.  Yes,  there  was  water,  and  yet 

The  mystery  of  it  was  a  mystery  she  had  never  known  to  brood 
even  over  a  white  northern  sea  in  a  twilight  hour  of  winter,  wasf 


138  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

deeper  than  the  mystery  of  the  Venetian  laguna  morta,  when  the 
Angelus  bell  chimes  at  sunset,  and  each  distant  boat,  each  bend- 
ing rower  and  patient  fisherman,  becomes  a  marvel,  an  eerie  thing 
in  the  gold. 

"  Is  it  mirage  ?  "  she  said  to  him  almost  in  a  whisper. 

And  suddenly  she  shivered. 
.  "Yes,  it  is,  it  must  be." 

He  did  not  answer.  His  left  hand,  holding  the  rein,  dropped 
down  on  the  saddle  peak,  and  he  stared  across  the  waste,  leaning 
forward  and  moving  his  lips.  She  looked  at  him  and  forgot  even 
the  mirage  in  a  sudden  longing  to  understand  exactly  what  he 
was  feeling.  His  mystery — the  mystery  of  that  which  is  human 
and  is  forever  stretching  out  its  arms — was  as  the  fluid  mystery 
of  the  mirage,  and  seemed  to  blend  at  that  moment  with  the 
mystery  she  knew  lay  in  herself.  The  mirage  was  within  them 
as  it  was  far  off  before  them  in  the  desert,  still,  grey,  full  surely 
of  indistinct  movement,  and  even  perhaps  of  sound  they  could 
not  hear. 

At  last  he  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Yes,  it  must  be  mirage,"  he  said.  "  The  nothing  that  seems 
to  be  so  much.  A  man  comes  out  into  the  desert  and  he  finds 
there  mirage.  He  travels  right  out  and  that's  what  he  reaches — 
or  at  least  he  can't  reach  it,  but  just  sees  it  far  away.  And  that's 
all.  And  is  that  what  a  man  finds  when  he  comes  out  into  the 
world?" 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  spoken  without  any  trace  of 
reserve  to  her,  for  even  on  the  tower,  though  there  had  been 
tumult  in  his  voice  and  a  fierceness  of  some  strange  passion  in  his 
words,  there  had  been  struggle  in  his  manner,  as  if  the  pressure 
of  feeling  forced  him  to  speak  in  despite  of  something  which 
bade  him  keep  silence.  Now  he  spoke  as  if  to  someone  whom 
he  knew  and  with  whom  he  had  talked  of  many  things. 

"  But  you  ought  to  know  better  than  I  do,"  she  answered. 

"  I!  " 

"  Yes.  You  are  a  man,  and  have  been  in  the  world,  and  must 
know  what  it  has  to  give — whether  there's  only  mirage,  or  some- 
thing that  can  be  grasped  and  felt  and  lived  in,  and " 

"  Yes,  I'm  a  man  and  I  ought  to  know,"  he  replied.  "  Well, 
I  don't  know,  but  I  mean  to  know." 

There  was  a  savage  sound  in  his  voice. 

"  I  should  like  to  know,  too,"  Domini  said  quietly.  "  And  I 
feel  as  if  it  was  the  desert  that  was  going  to  teach  me." 

"The  desert— how?" 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  itf 

"  I  don't  know." 

He  pointed  again  to  the  mirage. 

"  But  that's  what  there  is  in  the  desert." 

"That— and  what  else?" 

"  Is  there  anything  else?  " 

"  Perhaps  everything,"  she  answered.  "  I  am  like  you.  I 
want  to  know." 

He  looked  straight  into  her  eyes  and  there  was  something 
dominating  in  his  expression. 

"  You  think  it  is  the  desert  that  could  teach  you  whether  the 
world  holds  anything  but  a  mirage,"  he  said  slowly.  "  Well,  I 
don't  think  it  would  be  the  desert  that  could  teach  me." 

She  said  nothing  more,  but  let  her  horse  go  and  rode  off.  He 
followed,  and  as  he  rode  awkwardly,  yet  bravely,  pressing  his 
strong  legs  against  his  animal's  flanks  and  holding  his  thin  body 
bent  forward,  he  looked  at  Domini's  upright  figure  and  brilliant, 
elastic  grace — that  gave  in  to  her  horse  as  wave  gives  to  wind 
— with  a  passion  of  envy  in  his  eyes. 

They  did  not  speak  again  till  the  great  palm  gardens  of  the 
oasis  they  had  seen  far  off  were  close  upon  them.  From  the 
desert  they  looked  both  shabby  and  superb,  as  if  some  millionaire 
had  poured  forth  money  to  create  a  Paradise  out  here,  and,  when 
it  was  nearly  finished,  had  suddenly  repented  of  his  whim  and 
refused  to  spend  another  farthing.  The  thousands  upon 
thousands  of  mighty  trees  were  bounded  by  long,  irregular  walls 
of  hard  earth,  at  the  top  of  which  were  stuck  distraught  thorn 
bushes.  These  walls  gave  the  rough,  penurious  aspect  which 
was  in  such  sharp  contrast  to  the  exotic  mystery  they  guarded. 
Yet  in  the  fierce  blaze  of  the  sun  their  meanness  was  not  dis- 
agreeable. Domini  even  liked  it.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  the 
desert  had  thrown  up  waves  to  protect  this  daring  oasis  which 
ventured  to  fling  its  green  glory  like  a  defiance  in  the  face 
of  the  Sahara.  A  wide  track  of  earth,  sprinkled  with  stones 
and  covered  with  deep  ruts,  holes  and  hummocks,  wound  in 
from  the  desert  between  the  earthen  walls  and  vanished  into  the 
heart  of  the  oasis.  They  followed  it. 

Domini  was  filled  with  a  sort  of  romantic  curiosity.  This 
luxury  of  palms  far  out  in  the  midst  of  desolation,  untended 
apparently  by  human  hands — for  no  figures  moved  among  them, 
there  was  no  one  on  the  road — suggested  some  hidden  purpose 
and  activity,  some  concealed  personage,  perhaps  an  Eastern 
Anteoni,  whose  lair  lay  surely  somewhere  beyond  them.  As  she 
had  felt  the  call  of  the  desert  she  now  felt  the  call  of  the  oasis. 


i4o  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

In  this  land  thrilled  eternally  a  summons  to  go  onward,  to  seek, 
to  penetrate,  to  be  a  passionate  pilgrim.  She  wondered  whether 
her  companion's  heart  could  hear  it. 

"  I  don't  know  why  it  is,"  she  said,  "  but  out  here  I  always 
feel  expectant.  I  always  feel  as  if  some  marvellous  thing  might 
be  going  to  happen  to  me." 

She  did  not  add  "  Do  you?  "  but  looked  at  him  as  if  for  a 
reply. 

"  Yes,  Madame,"  he  said. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  because  I  am  new  to  Africa.  This  is  my 
first  visit  here.  I  am  not  like  you.  I  can't  speak  Arabic." 

She  suddenly  wondered  whether  the  desert  was  new  to 
him  as  to  her.  She  had  assumed  that  it  was.  Yet  as  he 
spoke  Arabic  it  was  almost  certain  that  he  had  been  much  in 
Africa. 

"  I  do  not  speak  it  well,"  he  answered. 

And  he  looked  away  towards  the  dense  thickets  of  the  palms. 
The  track  narrowed  till  the  trees  on  either  side  cast  patterns  of 
moving  shade  across  it  and  the  silent  mystery  was  deepened. 
As  far  as  the  eye  could  see  the  feathery,  tufted  foliage  swayed 
in  the  little  wind.  The  desert  had  vanished,  but  sent  in  after 
them  the  message  of  its  soul,  the  marvellous  breath  which 
Domini  had  drunk  into  her  lungs  so  long  before  she  saw  it. 
That  breath  was  like  a  presence.  It  dwells  in  all  oases.  The 
high  earth  walls  concealed  the  gardens.  Domini  longed  to  look 
over  and  see  what  they  contained,  whether  there  were  any 
dwellings  in  these  dim  and  silent  recesses,  any  pools  of  water, 
flowers  or  grassy  lawns. 

Her  horse  neighed. 

"  Something  is  coming,"  she  said. 

They  turned  a  corner  and  were  suddenly  in  a  village.  A  mob 
of  half-naked  children  scattered  from  their  horses'  feet.  Rows 
of  seated  men  in  white  and  earth-coloured  robes  stared  upon 
them  from  beneath  the  shadow  of  tall,  windowless  earth  houses. 
White  dogs  rushed  to  and  fro  upon  the  flat  roofs,  thrusting 
forward  venomous  heads,  showing  their  teeth  and  barking 
furiously.  Hens  fluttered  in  agitation  from  one  side  to  the 
other.  A  grey  mule,  tethered  to  a  palm-wood  door  and  loaded 
with  brushwood,  lashed  out  with  its  hoofs  at  a  negro,  who  at 
once  began  to  batter  it  passionately  with  a  pole,  and  a  long  line 
of  sneering  camels  confronted  them,  treading  stealthily,  and 
turning  their  serpentine  necks  from  side  to  side  as  they  came 
onwards  with  a  soft  and  weary  inflexibility.  In  the  distance 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  141 

there  was  a  vision  of  a  glaring  market-place  crowded  with  mov- 
ing forms  and  humming  with  noises. 

The  change  from  mysterious  peace  to  this  vivid  and  con- 
centrated life  was  startling. 

With  difficulty  they  avoided  the  onset  of  the  camels  by  pull- 
ing their  horses  into  the  midst  of  the  dreamers  against  the  walls, 
who  rolled  and  scrambled  into  places  of  safety,  then  stood  up 
and  surrounded  them,  staring  with  an  almost  terrible  interest 
upon  them,  and  surveying  their  horses  with  the  eyes  of 
connoisseurs.  The  children  danced  up  and  began  to  ask  for 
alms,  and  an  immense  man,  with  a  broken  nose  and  brown  teeth 
like  tusks,  laid  a  gigantic  hand  on  Domini's  bridle  and  said,  in 
atrocious  French: 

"  I  am  the  guide,  I  am  the  guide.  Look  at  my  certificates. 
Take  no  one  else.  The  people  here  are  robbers.  I  am  the  only 
honest  man.  I  will  show  Madame  everything.  I  will  take 
Madame  to  the  inn.  Look — my  certificates!  Read  them! 
Read  what  the  English  lord  says  of  me.  I  alone  am  honest 
here.  I  am  honest  Mustapha!  I  am  honest  Mustapha!  " 

He  thrust  a  packet  of  discoloured  papers  and  dirty  visiting- 
cards  into  her  hands.  She  dropped  them,  laughing,  and  they 
floated  down  over  the  horse's  neck.  The  man  leaped  frantically 
to  pick  them  up,  assisted  by  the  robbers  round  about.  A  second 
caravan  of  camels  appeared,  preceded  by  some  filthy  men  in 
rags,  who  cried,  "  Oosh !  oosh !  "  to  clear  the  way.  The  immense 
man,  brandishing  his  recovered  certificates,  plunged  forward  to 
encounter  them,  shouting  in  Arabic,  hustled  them  back,  kicked 
them,  struck  at  the  camels  with  a  stick  till  those  in  front  re- 
ceded upon  those  behind  and  the  street  was  blocked  by  strug- 
gling beasts  and  resounded  with  roaring  snarls,  the  thud  of 
wooden  bales  clashing  together,  and  the  desperate  protests  of 
the  camel-drivers,  one  of  whom  was  sent  rolling  into  a  noisome 
dust  heap  with  his  turban  torn  from  his  head. 

"  The  inn !  This  is  the  inn !  Madame  will  descend  here. 
Madame  will  eat  in  the  garden.  Monsieur  Alphonse !  Monsieur 
Alphonse!  Here  are  clients  for  dejeuner.  I  have  brought 
them.  Do  not  believe  Mohammed.  It  is  I  that — I  will  assist 
Madame  to  descend.  I  will " 

Domini  was  standing  in  a  tiny  cabaret  before  a  row  of 
absinthe  bottles,  laughing,  almost  breathless.  She  scarcely  knew 
how  she  had  come  there.  Looking  back  she  saw  Androvsky 
still  sitting  on  his  horse  in  the  midst  of  the  clamouring  mob.  She 
went  to  the  low  doorway,  but  Mustapha  barred  her  exit. 


H2  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  This  is  Sidi-Zerzour.  Madame  will  eat  in  the  garden.  She 
is  tired,  fainting.  She  will  eat  and  then  she  will  see  the  great 
Mosque  of  Zerzour." 

"Sidi-Zerzour!"  she  exclaimed.  "Monsieur  Androvsky, 
do  you  know  where  we  are  ?  This  is  the  famous  Sidi-Zerzour, 
where  the  great  warrior  is  buried,  and  where  the  Arabs  make 
pilgrimages  to  worship  at  his  tomb." 

"  Yes,  Madame." 

He  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

"  As  we  are  here  we  ought  to  see.  Do  you  know,  I  think 
we  must  yield  to  honest  Mustapha  and  have  dejeuner  in  the 
garden.  It  is  twelve  o'clock  and  I  am  hungry.  We  might  visit 
the  mosque  afterwards  and  ride  home  in  the  afternoon." 

He  sat  there  hunched  up  on  the  horse  and  looked  at  her  in 
silent  hesitation,  while  the  Arabs  stood  round  staring. 

"You'd  rather  not?" 

She  spoke  quietly.  He  shook  his  feet  out  of  the  stirrups. 
A  number  of  brown  hands  and  arms  shot  forth  to  help  him. 
Domini  turned  back  into  the  cabaret.  She  heard  a  tornado  of 
voices  outside,  a  horse  neighing  and  trampling,  a  scuffling  of 
feet,  but  she  did  not  glance  round.  In  about  three  minutes 
Androvsky  joined  her.  He  was  limping  slightly  and  bending 
forward  more  than  ever.  Behind  the  counter  on  which  stood 
the  absinthe  bottle  was  a  tarnished  mirror,  and  she  saw  him 
glance  quickly,  almost  guiltily  into  it,  put  up  his  hands  and  try 
to  brush  the  dust  from  his  hair,  his  shoulders. 

"  Let  me  do  it,"  she  said  abruptly.     "  Turn  round." 

He  obeyed  without  a  word,  turning  his  back  to  her.  With 
her  two  hands,  which  were  covered  with  soft,  loose  suede  gloves, 
she  beat  and  brushed  the  dust  from  his  coat.  He  stood  quite 
still  while  she  did  it.  When  she  had  finished  she  said : 

"  There,  that's  better." 

Her  voice  was  practical.     He  did  not  move,  but  stood  there. 

"  I've  done  what  I  can,  Monsieur  Androvsky." 

Then  he  turned  slowly,  and  she  saw,  with  amazement,  that 
there  were  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  did  not  thank  her  or  say  a 
word. 

A  small  and  scrubby-looking  Frenchman,  with  red  eyelids 
and  moustaches  that  drooped  over  a  pendulous  underlip,  now 
begged  Madame  to  follow  him  through  a  small  doorway  beyond 
which  could  be  seen  three  just  shot  gazelles  lying  in  a  patch  of 
sunlight  by  a  wired-in  fowl-run.  Domini  went  after  him,  and 
Androvsky  and  honest  Mustapha — still  vigorously  proclaiming 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  143 

his  own  virtues — brought  up  the  rear.  They  came  into  the  most 
curious  garden  she  had  ever  seen. 

It  was  long  and  narrow  and  dishevelled,  without  grass  or 
flowers.  The  uneven  ground  of  it  was  bare,  sun-baked  earth, 
hard  as  parquet,  rising  here  into  a  hump,  falling  there  into  a 
depression.  Immediately  behind  the  cabaret,  where  the  dead 
gazelles  with  their  large  glazed  eyes  lay  by  the  fowl-run,  was  a 
rough  wooden  trellis  with  vines  trained  over  it,  making  an 
arbour.  Beyond  was  a  rummage  of  orange  trees,  palms,  gums 
and  fig  trees  growing  at  their  own  sweet  will,  and  casting  pat- 
terns of  deep  shade  upon  the  earth  in  sharp  contrast  with  the 
intense  yellow  sunlight  which  fringed  them  where  the  leafage 
ceased.  An  attempt  had  been  made  to  create  formal  garden 
paths  and  garden  beds  by  sticking  rushes  into  little  holes  drilled 
in  the  ground,  but  the  paths  were  zig-zag  as  a  drunkard's  walk, 
and  the  round  and  oblong  beds  contained  no  trace  of  plants.  On 
either  hand  rose  steep  walls  of  earth,  higher  than  a  man,  and 
crowned  with  prickly  thorn  bushes.  Over  them  looked  palm 
trees.  At  the  end  of  the  garden  ran  a  slow  stream  of  muddy 
water  in  a  channel  with  crumbling  banks  trodden  by  many  naked 
feet.  Beyond  it  was  yet  another  lower  wall  of  earth,  yet  an- 
other maze  of  palms.  Heat  and  silence  brooded  here  like  reptiles 
on  the  warm  mud  of  a  tropic  river  in  a  jungle.  Lizards  ran  in 
and  out  of  the  innumerable  holes  in  the  walls,  and  flies  buzzed 
beneath  the  ragged  leaves  of  the  fig  trees  and  crawled  in  the  hot 
cracks  of  the  earth. 

The  landlord  wished  to  put  a  table  under  the  vine  close  to 
the  cabaret  wall,  but  Domini  begged  him  to  bring  it  to  the  end 
of  the  garden  near  the  stream.  With  the  furious  assistance  of 
honest  Mustapha  he  carried  it  there  and  quickly  laid  it  in  the 
shadow  of  a  fig  tree,  while  Domini  and  Androvsky  waited  in 
silence  on  two  straw-bottomed  chairs. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  garden  was  hostile  to  conversation. 
The  sluggish  muddy  stream,  the  almost  motionless  trees,  the 
imprisoned  heat  between  the  surrounding  walls,  the  faint  buzz  of 
the  flies  caused  drowsiness  to  creep  upon  the  spirit.  The  long 
ride,  too,  and  the  ardent  desert  air,  made  this  repose  a  luxury. 
A.ndrovsky's  face  lost  its  emotional  expression  as  he  gazed 
almost  vacantly  at  the  brown  water  shifting  slowly  by  between 
the  brown  banks  and  the  brown  walls  above  which  the  palm 
trees  peered.  His  aching  limbs  relaxed.  His  hands  hung 
loose  between  his  knees.  And  Domini  half  closed  her  eyes.  A 
curious  peace  descended  upon  her.  Lapped  in  the  heat  and 


144  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

silence  for  the  moment  she  wanted  nothing.  The  faint  buzz  of 
the  flies  sounded  in  her  ears  and  seemed  more  silent  than  even 
the  silence  to  which  it  drew  attention.  Never  before,  not  in 
Count  Anteoni's  garden,  had  she  felt  more  utterly  withdrawn 
from  the  world.  The  feathery  tops  of  the  palms  were  like  the 
heads  of  sentinels  guarding  her  from  contact  with  all  that  she 
had  known.  And  beyond  them  lay  the  desert,  the  empty,  sun- 
lit waste.  She  shut  her  eyes,  and  murmured  to  herself,  "  I  am 
in  far  away.  I  am  in  far  away."  And  the  flies  said  it  in  her 
ears  monotonously.  And  the  lizards  whispered  it  as  they 
slipped  in  and  out  of  the  little  dark  holes  in  the  walls.  She 
heard  Androvsky  stir,  and  she  moved  her  lips  slowly.  And  the 
flies  and  the  lizards  continued  the  refrain.  But  she  said  now, 
"  We  are  in  far  away." 

Honest  Mustapha  strode  forward.  He  had  a  Bashi-Bazouk 
tread  to  wake  up  a  world.  Dejeuner  was  ready.  Domini 
sighed.  They  took  their  places  under  the  fig  tree  on  either  side 
of  the  deal  table  covered  with  a  rough  white  cloth,  and 
Mustapha,  with  tremendous  gestures,  and  gigantic  postures  sug- 
gesting the  untamed  descendant  of  legions  of  freeborn,  sun- 
suckled  men,  served  them  with  red  fish,  omelette,  gazelle  steaks, 
cheese,  oranges  and  dates,  with  white  wine  and  Vals  water. 

Androvsky  scarcely  spoke.  Now  that  he  was  sitting  at  a 
meal  with  Domini  he  was  obviously  embarrassed.  All  his  move- 
ments were  self-conscious.  He  seemed  afraid  to  eat  and  refused 
the  gazelle.  Mustapha  broke  out  into  turbulent  surprise  and 
prolonged  explanations  of  the  delicious  flavour  of  this  desert 
food.  But  Androvsky  still  refused,  looking  desperately  discon- 
certed. 

"  It  really  is  delicious,"  said  Domini,  who  was  eating  it. 
"  But  perhaps  you  don't  care  about  meat." 

She  spoke  quite  carelessly  and  was  surprised  to  see  him 
look  at  her  as  if  with  sudden  suspicion  and  immediately  help 
himself  to  the  gazelle. 

This  man  was  perpetually  giving  a  touch  of  the  whip  to  her 
curiosity  to  keep  it  alert.  Yet  she  felt  oddly  at  ease  with  him. 
He  seemed  somehow  part  of  her  impression  of  the  desert,  and 
now,  as  they  sat  under  the  fig  tree  between  the  high  earth  walls, 
and  at  their  al  fresco  meal  in  unbroken  silence — for  since  her 
last  remark  Androvsky  had  kept  his  eyes  down  and  had  not 
uttered  a  word — she  tried  to  imagine  the  desert  without  him. 

She  thought  of  the  gorge  of  El-Akbara,  the  cold,  the  dark- 
ness, and  then  the  sun  and  the  blue  country.  They  had  framed 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  145 

his  face.  She  thought  of  the  silent  night  when  the  voice  of  the 
African  hautboy  had  died  away.  His  step  had  broken  its 
silence.  She  thought  of  the  garden  of  Count  Anteoni,  and  of 
herself  kneeling  on  the  hot  sand  with  her  arms  on  the  white 
parapet  and  gazing  out  over  the  regions  of  the  sun,  of  her  dream 
upon  the  tower,  of  her  vision  when  Irena  danced.  He  was  there, 
part  of  the  noon,  part  of  the  twilight,  chief  surely  of  the  wor- 
shippers who  swept  on  in  the  pale  procession  that  received  gifts 
from  the  desert's  hands.  She  could  no  longer  imagine  the  desert 
without  him.  The  almost  painful  feeling  that  had  come  to  her 
in  the  garden — of  the  human  power  to  distract  her  attention 
from  the  desert  power — was  dying,  perhaps  had  completely 
died  away.  Another  feeling  was  surely  coming  to  replace  it; 
that  Androvsky  belonged  to  the  desert  more  even  than  the 
Arabs  did,  that  the  desert  spirits  were  close  about  him,  clasping 
his  hands,  whispering  in  his  ears,  and  laying  their  unseen  hands 
about  his  heart.  But 

They  had  finished  their  meal.  Domini  set  her  chair  once 
more  in  front  of  the  sluggish  stream,  while  honest  Mustapha 
bounded,  with  motions  suggestive  of  an  ostentatious  panther,  to 
get  the  coffee.  Androvsky  followed  her  after  an  instant  of 
hesitation. 

"  Do  smoke,"  she  said. 

He  lit  a  small  cigar  with  difficulty.  She  did  not  wish  to 
watch  him,  but  she  could  not  help  glancing  at  him  once  or  twice, 
and  the  conviction  came  to  her  that  he  was  unaccustomed  to 
smoking.  She  lit  a  cigarette,  and  saw  him  look  at  her  with  a 
sort  of  horrified  surprise  which  changed  to  staring  interest. 
There  was  more  boy,  more  child  in  this  man  than  in  any  man 
she  had  ever  known.  Yet  at  moments  she  felt  as  if  he  had  pen- 
etrated more  profoundly  into  the  dark  and  winding  valleys  of 
experience  than  all  the  men  of  her  acquaintance. 

"  Monsieur  Androvsky,"  she  said,  looking  at  the  slow  waters 
of  the  stream  slipping  by  towards  the  hidden  gardens,  "  is  the 
desert  new  to  you  ?  " 

She  longed  to  know. 

"  Yes,  Madame." 

"  I  thought  perhaps — I  wondered  a  little  whether  you  had 
travelled  in  it  already." 

"  No,  Madame.  I  saw  it  for  the  first  time  the  day  before 
yesterday." 

"  When  I  did." 

"  Yes." 


146  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

So  they  had  entered  it  for  the  first  time  together.  She  was 
silent,  watching  the  pale  smoke  curl  up  through  the  shade  and 
out  into  the  glare  of  the  sun,  the  lizards  creeping  over  the  hot 
earth,  the  flies  circling  beneath  the  lofty  walls,  the  palm  trees 
looking  over  into  this  garden  from  the  gardens  all  around, 
gardens  belonging  to  Eastern  people,  born  here,  and  who  would 
probably  die  here,  and  go  to  dust  among  the  roots  of  the 
palms. 

On  the  earthen  bank  on  the  far  side  of  the  stream  there 
appeared,  while  she  gazed,  a  brilliant  figure.  It  came  soundlessly 
on  bare  feet  from  a  hidden  garden ;  a  tall,  unveiled  girl,  dressed 
in  draperies  of  vivid  magenta,  who  carried  in  her  exquisitely- 
shaped  brown  hands  a  number  of  handkerchiefs — scarlet,  orange, 
yellow  green  and  flesh  colour.  She  did  not  glance  into  the 
auberge  garden,  but  caught  up  her  draperies  into  a  bunch  with 
one  hand,  exposing  her  slim  legs  far  above  the  knees,  waded 
into  the  stream,  and  bending,  dipped  the  handkerchiefs  in  the 
water. 

The  current  took  them.  They  streamed  out  on  the  muddy 
surface  of  the  stream,  and  tugged  as  if,  suddenly  endowed  with 
life,  they  were  striving  to  escape  from  the  hand  that  held 
them. 

The  girl's  face  was  beautiful,  with  small  regular  features  and 
lustrous,  tender  eyes.  Her  figure,  not  yet  fully  developed,  was 
perfect  in  shape,  and  seemed  to  thrill  softly  with  the  spirit  of 
youth.  Her  tint  of  bronze  suggested  statuary,  and  every  fresh 
pose  into  which  she  fell,  while  the  water  eddied  about  her, 
strengthened  the  suggestion.  With  the  golden  sunlight  stream- 
ing upon  her,  the  brown  banks,  the  brown  waters,  the  brown 
walls  throwing  up  the  crude  magenta  of  her  bunched-up 
draperies,  the  vivid  colours  of  the  handkerchiefs  that  floated 
from  her  hand,  with  the  feathery  palms  beside  her,  the  cloudless 
blue  sky  above  her,  she  looked  so  strangely  African  and  so  com- 
pletely lovely  that  Domini  watched  her  with  an  almost  breathless 
attention. 

She  withdrew  the  handkerchiefs  from  the  stream,  waded  out, 
and  spread  them  one  by  one  upon  the  low  earth  wall  to  dry, 
letting  her  draperies  fall.  When  she  had  finished  disposing 
them  she  turned  round,  and,  no  longer  preoccupied  with  her 
task,  looked  under  her  level  brows  into  the  garden  opposite  and 
saw  Domini  and  her  companion.  She  did  not  start,  but  stood 
quite  still  for  a  moment,  then  slipped  away  in  the  direction 
whence  she  had  come.  Only  the  brilliant  patches  of  colour  on 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  147 

the  wall  remained  to  hint  that  she  had  been  there  and  would 
come  again.  Domini  sighed. 

"  What  a  lovely  creature!  "  she  said,  more  to  herself  than  to 
Androvsky. 

He  did  not  speak,  and  his  silence  made  her  consciously 
demand  his  acquiescence  in  her  admiration. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  anything  more  beautiful  and  more  char- 
acteristic of  Africa?  "  she  asked. 

"  Madame,"  he  said  in  a  slow,  stern  voice,  "  I  did  not  look  at 
her." 

Domini  felt  piqued. 

"Why  not?"  she  retorted. 

Androvsky's  face  was  cloudy  and  almost  cruel. 

"  These  native  women  do  not  interest  me,"  he  said.  "  I  see 
nothing  attractive  in  them." 

Domini  knew  that  he  was  telling  her  a  lie.  Had  she  not 
seen  him  watching  the  dancing  girls  in  Tahar's  cafe?  Anger 
rose  in  her.  She  said  to  herself  then  that  it  was  anger  at  man's 
hypocrisy.  Afterwards  she  knew  that  it  was  anger  at  Androv- 
sky's telling  a  lie  to  her. 

"  I  can  scarcely  believe  that,"  she  answered  bluntly. 

They  looked  at  each  other. 

"  Why  not,  Madame?  "  he  said.     "  If  I  say  it  is  so?  " 

She  hesitated.  At  that  moment  she  realised,  with  hot  aston- 
ishment, that  there  was  something  in  this  man  that  could  make 
her  almost  afraid,  that  could  prevent  her  even,  perhaps,  from 
doing  the  thing  she  had  resolved  to  do.  Immediately  she  felt 
hostile  to  him,  and  she  knew  that,  at  that  moment,  he  was  feel- 
ing hostile  to  her. 

"  If  you  say  it  is  so  naturally  I  am  bound  to  take  your  word 
for  it,"  she  said  coldly. 

He  flushed  and  looked  down.  The  rigid  defiance  that  had 
confronted  her  died  out  of  his  face. 

Honest  Mustapha  broke  joyously  upon  them  with  the  coffee. 
Domini  helped  Androvsky  to  it.  She  had  to  make  a  great 
effort  to  perform  this  simple  act  writh  quiet,  and  apparently 
indifferent,  composure. 

"  Thank  you,  Madame." 

His  voice  sounded  humble,  but  she  felt  hard  and  as  if  ice 
were  in  all  her  veins.  She  sipped  her  coffee,  looking  straight 
before  her  at  the  stream.  The  magenta  robe  appeared  once 
more  coming  out  from  the  brown  wall.  A  yellow  robe  suc- 
ceeded it,  a  scarlet,  a  deep  purple.  The  girl,  with  three  curious 


148  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

young  companions,  stood  in  the  sun  examining  the  foreigners 
with  steady,  unflinching  eyes.  Domini  smiled  grimly.  Fate 
gave  her  an  opportunity.  She  beckoned  to  the  girls.  They 
looked  at  each  other  but  did  not  move.  She  held  up  a  bit  of 
silver  so  that  the  sun  was  on  it,  and  beckoned  them  again.  The 
magenta  robe  was  lifted  above  the  pretty  knees  it  had  covered. 
The  yellow,  the  scarlet,  the  deep  purple  robes  rose  too,  making 
their  separate  revelations.  And  the  four  girls,  all  staring  at  the 
silver  coin,  waded  through  the  muddy  water  and  stood  before 
Domini  and  Androvsky,  blotting  out  the  glaring  sunshine  with 
their  young  figures.  Their  smiling  faces  were  now  eager  and 
confident,  and  they  stretched  out  their  delicate  hands  hope- 
fully to  the  silver.  Domini  signified  that  they  must  wait  a 
moment. 

She  felt  full  of  malice. 

The  girls  wore  many  ornaments.  She  began  slowly  and 
deliberately  to  examine  them;  the  huge  gold  earrings  that  were 
as  large  as  the  little  ears  that  sustained  them,  the  bracelets  and 
anklets,  the  triangular  silver  skewers  that  fastened  the  draperies 
across  the  gentle  swelling  breasts,  the  narrow  girdles,  worked 
with  gold  thread,  and  hung  with  lumps  of  coral,  that  circled  the 
small,  elastic  waists.  Her  inventory  was  an  adagio,  and  while  it 
lasted  Androvsky  sat  on  his  low  straw  chair  with  this  wall  of 
young  womanhood  before  him,  of  young  womanhood  no  longer 
self-conscious  and  timid,  but  eager,  hardy,  natural,  warm  with 
the  sun  and  damp  with  the  trickling  drops  of  the  water.  The 
vivid  draperies  touched  him,  and  presently  a  little  hand  stole  out 
to  his  breast,  caught  at  the  silver  chain  that  lay  across  it,  and 
jerked  out  of  its  hiding-place — a  wooden  cross. 

Domini  saw  the  light  on  it  for  a  second,  heard  a  low,  fierce 
exclamation,  saw  Androvsky's  arm  push  the  pretty  hand  roughly 
away,  and  then  a  thing  that  was  strange. 

He  got  up  violently  from  his  chair  with  the  cross  hanging 
loose  on  his  breast.  Then  he  seized  hold  of  it,  snapped  the 
chain  in  two,  threw  the  cross  passionately  into  the  stream  and 
walked  away  down  the  garden.  The  four  girls,  with  a  twitter- 
ing cry  of  excitement,  rushed  into  the  water,  heedless  of  draper- 
ies, bent  down,  knelt  down,  and  began  to  feel  frantically  in  the 
mud  for  the  vanished  ornament.  Domini  stood  up  and  watched 
them.  Androvsky  did  not  come  back.  Some  minutes  passed. 
Then  there  was  an  exclamation  of  triumph  from  the  stream. 
The  girl  in  magenta  held  up  the  dripping  cross  with  the  bit  of 
silver  chain  in  her  dripping  fingers.  Domini  cast  a  swift  glance 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  149 

behind  her.  Androvsky  had  disappeared.  Quickly  she  went  to 
the  edge  of  the  water.  As  she  was  in  riding-dress  she  wore  no 
ornaments  except  two  earrings  made  of  large  and  beautiful 
turquoises.  She  took  them  hastily  out  of  her  ears  and  held 
them  out  to  the  girl,  signifying  by  gestures  that  she  bartered 
them  for  the  little  cross  and  chain.  The  girl  hesitated,  but  the 
clear  blue  tint  of  the  turquoise  pleased  her  eyes.  She  yielded, 
snatched  the  earrings  with  an  eager,  gave  up  the  cross  and  chain 
with  a  reluctant,  hand.  Domini's  fingers  closed  round  the  wet 
gold.  She  threw  some  coins  across  the  stream  on  to  the  bank, 
and  turned  away,  thrusting  the  cross  into  her  bosom. 

And  she  felt  at  that  moment  as  if  she  had  saved  a  sacred 
thing  from  outrage. 

At  the  cabaret  door  she  found  Androvsky,  once  more  sur- 
rounded by  Arabs,  whom  honest  Mustapha  was  trying  to  beat 
off.  He  turned  when  he  heard  her.  His  eyes  were  still  full  of 
a  light  that  revealed  an  intensity  of  mental  agitation,  and  she 
saw  his  left  hand,  which  hung  down,  quivering  against  his  side. 
But  he  succeeded  in  schooling  his  voice  as  he  asked: 

"  Do  you  wish  to  visit  the  village,  Madame  ?  " 

"  Yes.    But  don't  let  me  bother  you  if  you  would  rather " 

"  I  will  come.     I  wish  to  come." 

She  did  not  believe  it.  She  felt  that  he  was  in  great  pain, 
both  of  body  and  mind.  His  fall  had  hurt  him.  She  knew  that 
by  the  way  he  moved  his  right  arm.  The  unaccustomed  exercise 
had  made  him  stiff.  Probably  the  physical  discomfort  he  was 
silently  enduring  had  acted  as  an  irritant  to  the  mind.  She  re- 
membered that  it  was  caused  by  his  determination  to  be  her  com- 
panion, and  the  ice  in  her  melted  away.  She  longed  to  make 
him  calmer,  happier.  Secretly  she  touched  the  little  cross  that 
lay  under  her  habit.  He  had  thrown  it  away  in  a  passion. 
Well,  some  day  perhaps  she  would  have  the  pleasure  of  giving 
it  back  to  him.  Since  he  had  worn  it  he  must  surely  care  for  it, 
and  even  perhaps  for  that  which  it  recalled. 

"  We  ought  to  visit  the  mosque,  I  think,"  she  said. 

"Yes,   Madame." 

The  assent  sounded  determined  yet  reluctant.  She  knew 
this  was  all  against  his  will.  Mustapha  took  charge  of  them, 
and  they  set  out  down  the  narrow  street,  accompanied  by  a  little 
crowd.  They  crossed  the  glaring  market-place,  with  its  booths 
of  red  meat  made  black  by  flies,  its  heaps  of  refuse,  its  rows  of 
small  and  squalid  hutches,  in  which  sat  serious  men  surrounded 
by  their  goods.  The  noise  here  was  terrific.  Everyone  seemed 


1 50  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

shouting,  and  the  uproar  of  the  various  trades,  the  clamour  of 
hammers  on  sheets  of  iron,  the  dry  tap  of  the  shoemaker's 
wooden  wand  on  the  soles  of  countless  slippers,  the  thud  of  the 
coffee-beater's  blunt  club  on  the  beans,  and  the  groaning  grunt 
with  which  he  accompanied  each  downward  stroke  mingled  with 
the  incessant  roar  of  camels,  and  seemed  to  be  made  more 
deafening  and  intolerable  by  the  fierce  heat  of  the  sun,  and  by 
the  innumerable  smells  which  seethed  forth  upon  the  air. 
Domini  felt  her  nerves  set  on  edge,  and  was  thankful  when  they 
came  once  more  into  the  narrow  alleys  that  ran  everywhere  be- 
tween the  brown,  blind  houses.  In  them  there  was  shade  and 
silence  and  mystery.  Mustapha  strode  before  to  show  the  way, 
Domini  and  Androvsky  followed,  and  behind  glided  the  little 
mob  of  barefoot  inquisitors  in  long  shirts,  speechless  and  intent, 
and  always  hopeful  of  some  chance  scattering  of  money  by  the 
wealthy  travellers. 

The  tumult  of  the  market-place  at  length  died  away,  and 
Domini  was  conscious  of  a  curious,  far-off  murmur.  At  first  it 
was  so  faint  that  she  was  scarcely  aware  of  it,  and  merely  felt  the 
soothing  influence  of  its  level  monotony.  But  as  they  walked  on 
it  grew  deeper,  stronger.  It  was  like  the  sound  of  countless 
multitudes  of  bees  buzzing  in  the  noon  among  flowers,  drowsily, 
ceaselessly.  She  stopped  under  a  low  mud  arch  to  listen.  And 
when  she  listened,  standing  still,  a  feeling  of  awe  came  upon  her, 
and  she  knew  that  she  had  never  heard  such  a  strangely  impres- 
sive, strangely  suggestive  sound  before. 

"What  is  that?  "she  said. 

She  looked  at  Androvsky. 

"  I  don't  know,  Madame.     It  must  be  people." 

"  But  what  can  they  be  doing?  " 

"  They  are  praying  in  the  mosque  where  Sidi-Zerzour  is 
buried,"  said  Mustapha. 

Domini  remembered  the  perfume-seller.  This  was  the  sound 
she  had  heard  in  his  sunken  chamber,  infinitely  multiplied. 
They  went  on  again  slowly.  Mustapha  had  lost  something  of 
his  flaring  manner,  and  his  gait  was  subdued.  He  walked  with 
a  sort  of  soft  caution,  like  a  man  approachirig  holy  ground. 
And  Domini  was  moved  by  his  sudden  reverence.  It  was  im- 
pressive in  such  a  fierce  and  greedy  scoundrel.  The  level 
murmur  deepened,  strengthened.  All  the  empty  and  dim  alleys 
surrounding  the  unseen  mosque  were  alive  with  it,  as  if  the  earth 
of  the  houses,  the  palm-wood  beams,  the  iron  bars  of  the  tiny, 
shuttered  windows,  the  very  thorns  of  the  brushwood  roofs  were 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  151 

praying  ceaselessly  and  intently  in  secret  under  voices.  This 
was  a  world  intense  with  prayer  as  a  flame  is  intense  with  heat, 
with  prayer  penetrating  and  compelling,  urgent  in  its  persist- 
ence, powerful  in  its  deep  and  sultry  concentration,  yet  almost 
oppressive,  almost  terrible  in  its  monotony. 

"  Allah-Akbar!  Allah-Akbar!  "  It  was  the  murmur  of  the 
desert  and  the  murmur  of  the  sun.  It  was  the  whisper  of  the 
mirage  and  of  the  airs  that  stole  among  the  palm  leaves.  It  was 
the  perpetual  heart-beat  of  this  world  that  was  engulfing  her, 
taking  her  to  its  warm  and  glowing  bosom  with  soft  and 
tyrannical  intention. 

"Allah!  Allah!  Allah!"  Surely  God  must  be  very  near, 
bending  to  such  an  everlasting  cry.  Never  before,  not  even 
when  the  bell  sounded  and  the  Host  was  raised,  had  Domini  felt 
the  nearness  of  God  to  His  world,  the  absolute  certainty  of 
a  Creator  listening  to  His  creatures,  watching  them,  wanting 
them,  meaning  them  some  day  to  be  one  with  Him,  as  she  felt 
it  now  while  she  threaded  the  dingy  alleys  towards  these  count- 
less men  who  prayed. 

Androvsky  was  walking  slowly  as  if  in  pain. 

"  Your  shoulder  isn't  hurting  you?  "  she  whispered. 

This  long  sound  of  prayer  moved  her  to  the  soul,  made  her 
feel  very  full  of  compassion  for  everybody  and  everything,  and 
as  if  prayer  were  a  cord  binding  the  world  together.  He  shook 
his  head  silently.  She  looked  at  him,  and  felt  that  he  was  moved 
also,  but  whether  as  she  was  she  could  not  tell.  His  face  was 
like  that  of  a  man  stricken  with  awe.  Mustapha  turned  round 
to  them.  The  everlasting  murmur  was  now  so  near  that  it 
seemed  to  be  within  them,  as  if  they,  too,  prayed  at  the  tomb 
of  Zerzour. 

"  Follow  me  into  the  court,  Madame,"  Mustapha  said,  "  and 
remain  at  the  door  while  I  fetch  the  slippers." 

They  turned  a  corner,  and  came  to  an  open  space  before  an 
archway,  which  led  into  the  first  of  the  courts  surrounding  the 
mosque.  Under  the  archway  Arabs  were  sitting  silently,  as  if 
immersed  in  profound  reveries.  They  did  not  move,  but  stared 
upon  the  strangers,  and  Domini  fancied  that  there  was  enmity  in 
their  eyes.  Beyond  them,  upon  an  uneven  pavement  surrounded 
with  lofty  walls,  more  Arabs  were  gathered,  kneeling,  bowing 
their  heads  to  the  ground,  and  muttering  ceaseless  words  in  deep, 
almost  growling,  voices.  Their  fingers  slipped  over  the  beads  of 
the  chaplets  they  wore  round  their  necks,  and  Domini  thought 
of  her  rosary.  Some  prayed  alone,  removed  in  shady  corners, 


1 52  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

with  faces  turned  to  the  wall.  Others  were  gathered  into  knots. 
But  each  one  pursued  his  own  devotions,  immersed  in  a  strange, 
interior  solitude  to  which  surely  penetrated  an  unseen  ray  of 
sacred  light.  There  were  young  boys  praying,  and  old,  wrinkled 
men,  eagles  of  the  desert,  with  fierce  eyes  that  did  not  soften  as 
they  cried  the  greatness  of  Allah,  the  greatness  of  his  Prophet, 
but  gleamed  as  if  their  belief  were  a  thing  of  flame  and  bronze. 
The  boys  sometimes  glanced  at  each  other  while  they  prayed, 
and  after  each  glance  they  swayed  with  greater  violence,  and 
bowed  down  with  more  passionate  abasement.  The  vision  of 
prayer  had  stirred  them  to  a  young  longing  for  excess.  The 
spirit  of  emulation  flickered  through  them  and  turned  their 
worship  into  war. 

In  a  second  and  smaller  court  before  the  portal  of  the  mosque 
men  were  learning  the  Koran.  Dressed  in  white  they  sat  in 
circles,  holding  squares  of  some  material  that  looked  like  card- 
board covered  with  minute  Arab  characters,  pretty,  symmetrical 
curves  and  lines,  dots  and  dashes.  The  teachers  squatted  in  the 
midst,  expounding  the  sacred  text  in  nasal  voices  with  a  swiftness 
and  vivacity  that  seemed  pugnacious.  There  was  violence 
within  these  courts.  Domini  could  imagine  the  worshippers 
springing  up  from  their  knees  to  tear  to  pieces  an  intruding  dog 
of  an  unbeliever,  their  sinking  to  their  knees  again  while  the 
blood  trickled  over  the  sun-dried  pavement  and  the  lifeless  body 
lay  there  to  rot  and  draw  the  flies. 

"Allah!     Allah!     Allah!" 

There  was  something  imperious  in  such  ardent,  such  concen- 
trated and  untiring  worship,  a  demand  which  surely  could  not  be 
overlooked  or  set  aside.  The  tameness,  the  half-heartedness  of 
Western  prayer  and  Western  praise  had  no  place  here.  This 
prayer  was  hot  as  the  sunlight,  this  praise  was  a  mounting  fire. 
The  breath  of  this  human  incense  was  as  the  breath  of  a  furnace 
pouring  forth  to  the  gates  of  the  Paradise  of  Allah.  It  gave  to 
Domini  a  quite  new  conception  of  religion,  of  the  relation  be- 
tween Creator  and  created.  The  personal  pride  which,  like 
blood  in  a  body,  runs  through  all  the  veins  of  the  mind  of 
Mohammedanism,  that  measureless  hauteur  which  sets  the  soul 
of  a  Sultan  in  the  twisted  frame  of  a  beggar  at  a  street  corner, 
and  makes  impressive,  even  almost  majestical,  the  filthy  mara- 
bout, quivering  with  palsy  and  devoured  by  disease,  who  squats 
beneath  a  holy  bush  thick  with  the  discoloured  rags  of  the  faith- 
ful, was  not  abased  at  the  shrine  of  the  warrior  Zerzour,  was  not 
cast  off  in  the  act  of  adoration.  These  Arabs  humbled  them- 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  153 

selves  in  the  body.  Their  foreheads  touched  the  stones.  By 
their  attitudes  they  seemed  as  if  they  wished  to  make  themselves 
even  with  the  ground,  to  shrink  into  the  space  occupied  by  a 
grain  of  sand.  Yet  they  were  proud  in  the  presence  of  Allah,  as 
if  the  firmness  of  their  belief  in  him  and  his  right  dealing,  the 
fury  of  their  contempt  and  hatred  for  those  who  looked  not 
towards  Mecca  nor  regarded  Ramadan,  gave  them  a  patent  of 
nobility.  Despite  their  genuflections  they  were  all  as  men  who 
knew,  and  never  forgot,  that  on  them  was  conferred  the  right 
to  keep  on  their  head-covering  in  the  presence  of  their  King. 
With  their  closed  eyes  they  looked  God  full  in  the  face.  Their 
dull  and  growling  murmur  had  the  majesty  of  thunder  rolling 
through  the  sky. 

Mustapha  had  disappeared  within  the  mosque,  leaving  Domini 
and  Androvsky  for  the  moment  alone  in  the  midst  of  the  wor- 
shippers. From  the  shadowy  interior  came  forth  a  ceaseless 
sound  of  prayer  to  join  the  prayer  without.  There  was  a  narrow 
stone  seat  by  the  mosque  door  and  she  sat  down  upon  it.  She 
felt  suddenly  weary,  as  one  being  hypnotised  feels  weary  when 
the  body  and  spirit  begin  to  yield  to  the  spell  of  the  operator. 
Androvsky  remained  standing.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
ground,  and  she  thought  his  face  looked  almost  phantom-like, 
as  if  the  blood  had  sunk  away  from  it,  leaving  it  white  beneath 
the  brown  tint  set  there  by  the  sun.  He  stayed  quite  still.  The 
dark  shadow  cast  by  the  towering  mosque  fell  upon  him,  and  his 
immobile  figure  suggested  to  her  ranges  of  infinite  melancholy. 
She  sighed  as  one  oppressed.  There  was  an  old  man  praying 
near  them  at  the  threshold  of  the  door,  with  his  face  turned 
towards  the  interior.  He  was  very  thin,  almost  a  skeleton,  was 
dressed  in  rags  through  which  his  copper-coloured  body,  sharp 
with  scarce-covered  bones,  could  be  seen,  and  had  a  scanty  white 
beard  sticking  up,  like  a  brush,  at  the  tip  of  his  pointed  chin. 
His  face,  worn  with  hardship  and  turned  to  the  likeness  of  parch- 
ment by  time  and  the  action  of  the  sun,  was  full  of  senile  venom ; 
and  his  toothless  mouth,  with  its  lips  folded  inwards,  moved  per- 
petually, as  if  he  were  trying  to  bite.  With  rhythmical  regu- 
larity, like  one  obeying  a  conductor,  he  shot  forth  his  arms 
towards  the  mosque  as  if  he  wished  to  strike  it,  withdrew  them, 
paused,  then  shot  them  forth  again.  And  as  his  arms  shot  forth 
he  uttered  a  prolonged  and  trembling  shriek,  full  of  weak,  yet 
intense,  fury. 

He  was  surely  crying  out  upon  God,  denouncing  God  for  the 
evils  that  had  beset  his  nearly  ended  life.  Poor,  horrible  old 


154  THE   GARDEN    OF   ALLAH 

man!  Androvsky  was  closer  to  him  than  she  was,  but  did  not 
seem  to  notice  him.  Once  she  had  seen  him  she  could  not  take 
her  eyes  from  him.  His  perpetual  gesture,  his  perpetual  shriek, 
became  abominable  to  her  in  the  midst  of  the  bowing  bodies  and 
the  humming  voices  of  prayer.  Each  time  he  struck  at  the 
mosque  and  uttered  his  piercing  cry  she  seemed  to  hear  an 
oath  spoken  in  a  sanctuary.  She  longed  to  stop  him.  This 
one  blasphemer  began  to  destroy  for  her  the  mystic  atmosphere 
created  by  the  multitudes  of  adorers,  and  at  last  she  could  no 
longer  endure  his  reiterated  enmity. 

She  touched  Androvsky 's  arm.     He  started  and  looked  at  her. 

"  That  old  man,"  she  whispered.  "  Can't  you  speak  to 
him?" 

Androvsky  glanced  at  him  for  the  first  time. 

"  Speak  to  him,  Madame?    Why?  " 

"He— he's  horrible!" 

She  felt  a  sudden  disinclination  to  tell  Androvsky  why  the 
old  man  was  horrible  to  her. 

"  What  do  you  wish  me  to  say  to  him?  " 

"  I  thought  perhaps  you  might  be  able  to  stop  him  from 
doing  that." 

Androvsky  bent  down  and  spoke  to  the  old  man  in  Arabic. 

He  shot  out  his  arms  and  reiterated  his  trembling  shriek.  It 
pierced  the  sound  of  prayer  as  lightning  pierces  cloud. 

Domini  got  up  quickly. 

"  I  can't  bear  it,"  she  said,  still  in  a  whisper.  "  It's  as  if  he 
were  cursing  God." 

Androvsky  looked  at  the  old  man  again,  this  time  with  pro- 
found attention. 

"  Isn't  it  ?  "  she  said.  "  Isn't  it  as  if  he  were  cursing  God 
while  the  whole  world  worshipped  ?  And  that  one  cry  of  hatred 
seems  louder  than  the  praises  of  the  whole  world." 

"We  can't  stop  it."  ^ 

Something  in  his  voice  made  her  say  abruptly: 

"  Do  you  wish  to  stop  it?  " 

He  did  not  answer.  The  old  man  struck  at  the  mosque  and 
shrieked.  Domini  shuddered. 

"  I  can't  stay  here,"  she  said. 

At  this  moment  Mustapha  appeared,  followed  by  the  guardian 
of  the  mosque,  who  carried  two  pairs  of  tattered  slippers. 

"  Monsieur  and  Madame  must  take  off  their  boots.  Then  I 
will  show  the  mosque." 

Domini  put  on  the  slippers  hastily,  and  went  into  the  mosque 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  155 

without  waiting  to  see  whether  Androvsky  was  following.  And 
the  old  man's  furious  cry  pursued  her  through  the  doorway. 

Within  there  was  space  and  darkness.  The  darkness  seemed 
to  be  praying.  Vistas  of  yellowish-white  arches  stretched  away 
in  front,  to  right  and  left.  On  the  floor,  covered  with  matting, 
quantities  of  shrouded  figures  knelt  and  swayed,  stood  up  sud- 
denly, knelt  again,  bowed  down  their  foreheads.  Preceded  by 
Mustapha  and  the  guide,  who  walked  on  their  stockinged  feet, 
Domini  slowly  threaded  her  way  among  them,  following  a  wind- 
ing path  whose  borders  were  praying  men.  To  prevent  her 
slippers  from  falling  off  she  had  to  shuffle  along  without  lifting 
her  feet  from  the  ground.  With  the  regularity  of  a  beating 
pulse  the  old  man's  shriek,  fainter  now,  came  to  her  from  with- 
out. But  presently,  as  she  penetrated  farther  into  the  mosque, 
it  was  swallowed  up  by  the  sound  of  prayer.  No  one  seemed  to 
see  her  or  to  know  that  she  was  there.  She  brushed  against  the 
white  garments  of  worshippers,  and  when  she  did  so  she  felt 
as  if  she  touched  the  hem  of  the  garments  of  mystery,  and  she 
held  her  habit  together  with  her  hands  lest  she  should  recall 
even  one  of  these  hearts  that  were  surely  very  far  off. 

Mustapha  and  the  guardian  stood  still  and  looked  round  at 
Domini.  Their  faces  were  solemn.  The  expression  of  greedy 
anxiety  had  gone  out  of  Mustapha's  eyes.  For  the  moment  the 
thought  of  money  had  been  driven  out  of  his  mind  by  some 
graver  pre-occupation.  She  saw  in  the  semi-darkness  two  wooden 
doors  set  between  pillars.  They  were  painted  green  and  red, 
and  fastened  with  clamps  and  bolts  of  hammered  copper  that 
looked  enormously  old.  Against  them  were  nailed  two  pictures 
of  winged  horses  with  human  heads,  and  two  more  pictures 
representing  a  fantastical  town  of  Eastern  houses  and  minarets 
in  gold  on  a  red  background.  Balls  of  purple  and  yellow  glass, 
and  crystal  chandeliers,  hung  from  the  high  ceiling  above  these 
doors,  with  many  ancient  lamps;  and  two  tattered  and  dusty 
banners  of  pale  pink  and  white  silk,  fringed  with  gold  and 
powdered  with  a  gold  pattern  of  flowers,  were  tied  to  the  pillars 
with  thin  cords  of  camel's  hair. 

"  This  is  the  tomb  of  Sidi-Zerzour,"  whispered  Mustapha. 
"  It  is  opened  once  a  year." 

The  guardian  of  the  mosque  fell  on  his  knees  before  the  tomb. 

"  That  is  Mecca." 

Mustapha  pointed  to  the  pictures  of  the  city.  Then  he,  too, 
dropped  down  and  pressed  his  forehead  against  the  matting. 
Domini  glanced  round  for  Androvsky.  He  was  not  there.  She 


/56  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

stood  alone  before  the  tomb  of  Zerzour,  the  only  human  being  in 
the  great,  dim  building  who  was  not  worshipping.  And  she  felt 
a  terrible  isolation,  as  if  she  were  excommunicated,  as  if  she 
dared  not  pray,  for  a  moment  almost  as  if  the  God  to  whom  this 
torrent  of  worship  flowed  were  hostile  to  her  alone. 

Had  her  father  ever  felt  such  a  .sensation  of  unutterable 
solitude  ? 

It  passed  quickly,  and,  standing  under  the  votive  lamps  before 
the  painted  doors,  she  prayed  too,  silently.  She  shut  her  eyes 
and  imagined  a  church  of  her  religion — the  little  church  of  Beni- 
Mora.  She  tried  to  imagine  the  voice  of  prayer  all  about  her, 
the  voice  of  the  great  Catholic  Church.  But  that  was  not 
possible.  Even  when  she  saw  nothing,  and  turned  her  soul 
inward  upon  itself,  and  strove  to  set  this  new  world  into  which 
she  had  come  far  off,  she  heard  in  the  long  murmur  that  filled 
it  a  sound  that  surely  rose  from  the  sand,  from  the  heart  and  the 
spirit  of  the  sand,  from  the  heart  and  the  spirit  of  desert  places, 
and  that  went  up  in  the  darkness  of  the  mosque  and  floated 
under  the  arches  through  the  doorway,  above  the  palms  and  the 
flat-roofed  houses,  and  that  winged  its  fierce  way,  like  a  desert 
eagle,  towards  the  sun. 

Mustapha's  hand  was  on  her  arm.  The  guardian,  too,  had 
risen  from  his  knees  and  drawn  from  his  robe  and  lit  a  candle. 
She  came  to  a  tiny  doorway,  passed  through  it  and  began  to 
mount  a  winding  stair.  The  sound  of  prayer  mounted  with  her 
from  the  mosque,  and  when  she  came  out  upon  the  platform  en- 
closed in  the  summit  of  the  minaret  she  heard  it  still  and  it  was 
multiplied.  For  all  the  voices  from  the  outside  courts  joined  it, 
and  many  voices  from  the  roofs  of  the  houses  round  about. 

Men  were  praying  there  too,  praying  in  the  glare  of  the  sun 
upon  their  housetops.  She  saw  them  from  the  minaret,  and  she 
saw  the  town  that  had  sprung  up  round  the  tomb  of  the  saint, 
and  all  the  palms  of  the  oasis,  and  beyond  them  immeasurable 
spaces  of  desert. 

"  Allah-Akbar !     Allah-Akbar !  " 

She  was  above  the  eternal  cry  now.  She  had  mounted  like 
a  prayer  towards  the  sun,  like  a  living,- pulsing  prayer,  like  the 
*oul  of  prayer.  She  gazed  at  the  far-off  desert  and  saw  prayer 
travelling,  the  soul  of  prayer  travelling — whither?  Where  was 
the  end  ?  Where  was  the  halting-place,  with  at  last  the  pitched 
tent,  the  camp  fires,  and  the  long,  the  long  repose? 

When  she  came  down  and  reached  the  court  she  found  the 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER  157 

old  man  still  striking  at  the  mosque  and  shrieking  out  his 
trembling  imprecation.  And  she  found  Androvsky  still  stand- 
ing by  him  with  fascinated  eyes. 

She  had  mounted  with  the  voice  of  prayer  into  the  sunshine, 
surely  a  little  way  towards  God. 

Androvsky  had  remained  in  the  dark  shadow  with  a  curse. 

It  was  foolish,  perhaps — a  woman's  vagrant  fancy — but  she 
wished  he  had  mounted  with  her. 


BOOK  III 

THE  GARDEN 
CHAPTER  X 

IT  was  noon  in  the  desert. 
The  voice  of  the  Mueddin  died  away  on  the  minaret,  and 
the  golden  silence  that  comes  out  of  the  heart  of  the  sun 
sank  down  once  more  softly  over  everything.  Nature 
seemed  unnaturally  still  in  the  heat.  The  slight  winds 
were  not  at  play,  and  the  palms  of  Beni-Mora  stood  motionless 
as  palm  trees  in  a  dream.  The  day  was  like  a  dream,  intense  and 
passionate,  yet  touched  with  something  unearthly,  something 
almost  spiritual.  In  the  cloudless  blue  of  the  sky  there  seemed 
a  magical  depth,  regions  of  colour  infinitely  prolonged.  In  the 
vision  of  the  distances,  where  desert  blent  with  sky,  earth  surely 
curving  up  to  meet  the  downward  curving  heaven,  the  dimness 
was  like  a  voice  whispering  strange  petitions.  The  ranges  of 
mountains  slept  in  the  burning  sand,  and  the  light  slept  in  their 
clefts  like  the  languid  in  cool  places.  For  there  was  a  glorious 
languor  even  in  the  light,  as  if  the  sun  were  faintly  oppressed  by 
the  marvel  of  his  power.  The  clearness  of  the  atmosphere  in  the 
remote  desert  was  not  obscured,  but  was  impregnated  with  the 
mystery  that  is  the  wonder  child  of  shadows.  The  far-off  gold 
that  kept  it  seemed  to  contain  a  secret  darkness.  In  the  oasis 
of  Beni-Mora  men,  who  had  slowly  roused  themselves  to  pray, 
sank  down  to  sleep  again  in  the  warm  twilight  of  shrouded 
gardens  or  the  warm  night  of  windowless  rooms. 

In  the  garden  of  Count  Anteoni  Larbi's  flute  was  silent. 

"  It  is  like  noon  in  a  mirage,"  Domini  said  softly. 

Count  Anteoni  nodded. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  were  looking  at  myself  a  long  way  off,"  she 
added.  "As  if  I  saw  myself  as  I  saw  the  grey  sea  and  the 
islands  on  the  way  to  Sidi-Zerzour.  What  magic  there  is  here. 
And  I  can't  get  accustomed  to  it.  Each  day  I  wonder  at  it  more 
and  find  it  more  inexplicable.  It  almost  frightens  me." 

158 


THE  GARDEN  159 

"You  could  be  frightened?" 

"  Not  easily  by  outside  things — at  least  I  hope  not." 

"But  what  then?" 

"  I  scarcely  know.  Sometimes  I  think  all  the  outside  things, 
which  do  what  are  called  the  violent  deeds  in  life,  are  tame,  and 
timid,  and  ridiculously  impotent  in  comparison  with  the  things 
we  can't  see,  which  do  the  deeds  we  can't  describe." 

"  In  the  mirage  of  this  land  you  begin  to  see  the  exterior  life 
as  a  mirage  ?  You  are  learning,  you  are  learning." 

There  was  a  creeping  sound  of  something  that  was  almost 
impish  in  his  voice. 

"  Are  you  a  secret  agent?  "  Domini  asked  him. 

"Of  whom,  Madame?" 

She  was  silent.  She  seemed  to  be  considering.  He  watched 
her  with  curiosity  in  his  bright  eyes. 

"  Of  the  desert,"  she  answered  at  length,  quite  seriously. 

"  A  secret  agent  has  always  a  definite  object.  What  is 
mine?" 

"  How  can  I  know?  How  can  I  tell  what  the  desert 
desires?" 

"  Already  you  personify  it!  " 

The  network  of  wrinkles  showed  itself  in  his  brown  face  as  he 
smiled,  surely  with  triumph. 

"  I  think  I  did  that  from  the  first,"  she  answered  gravely. 
"  I  know  I  did." 

"  And  what  sort  of  personage  does  the  desert  seem  to 
you?" 

"  You  ask  me  a  great  many  questions  to-day." 

"  Mirage  questions,  perhaps.  Forgive  me.  Let  us  listen  to 
the  question — orjs  it  the  demand? — of  the  desert  in  this  noon- 
tide hour,  the  greatest  hour  of  all  the  twenty-four  in  such  a  land 
as  this." 

They  were  silent  again,  watching  the  noon,  listening  to  it, 
feeling  it,  as  they  had  been  silent  when  the  Mueddin's  nasal  voice 
rose  in  the  call  to  prayer. 

Count  Anteoni  stood  in  the  sunshine  by  the  low  white  parapet 
of  the  garden.  Domini  sat  on  a  low  chair  in  the  shadow  cast  by 
a  great  jamelon  tree.  At  her  feet  was  a  bush  of  vivid  scarlet 
geraniums,  against  which  her  white  linen  dress  looked  curiously 
blanched.  There  was  a  half-drowsy,  yet  imaginative  light  in  her 
gipsy  eyes,  and  her  motionless  figure,  her  quiet  hands,  covered 
with  white  gloves,  lying  loosely  in  her  lap,  looked  attentive  and 
yet  languio!,  as  if  some  spell  began  to  bind  her  but  had  not  com- 


160  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

pleted  its  work  of  stilling  all  the  pulses  of  life  that  throbbed 
within  her.  And  in  truth  there  was  a  spell  upon  h&r,  the  spell 
of  the  golden  noon.  By  turns  she  gave  herself  to  it  consciously, 
then  consciously  strove  to  deny  herself  to  its  subtle  summons. 
And  each  time  she  tried  to  withdraw  it  seemed  to  her  that  the 
spell  was  a  little  stronger,  her  power  a  little  weaker.  Then  her 
lips  curved  in  a  smile  that  was  neither  joyous  nor  sad,  that  was 
perhaps  rather  part  perplexed  and  part  expectant. 

After  a  minute  of  this  silence  Count  Anteoni  drew  back  from 
the  sun  and  sat  down  in  a  chair  beside  Domini.  He  took  out 
his  watch. 

"  Twenty-five  minutes,"  he  said,  "  and  my  guests  will  be 
here." 

"  Guests!  "  she  said  with  an  accent  of  surprise. 

"  I  invited  the  priest  to  make  an  even  number." 

"Oh!" 

"You  don't  dislike  him?" 

"  I  like  him.     I  respect  him." 

"  But  I'm  afraid  you  aren't  pleased?  " 

Domini  looked  him  straight  in  the  face. 

"  Why  did  you  invite  Father  Roubier?  "  she  said. 

"  Isn't  four  better  than  three  ?  " 

"  You  don't  want  to  tell  me." 

"  I  am  a  little  malicious.  You  have  divined  it,  so  why  should 
I  not  acknowledge  it  ?  I  asked  Father  Roubier  because  I  wished 
to  see  the  man  of  prayer  with  the  man  who  fled  from  prayer." 

"  Mussulman  prayer,"  she  said  quickly. 

"  Prayer,"  he  said. 

His  voice  was  peculiarly  harsh  at  that  moment.  It  grated 
like  an  instrument  on  a  rough  surface.  Domini  knew  that 
secretly  he  was  standing  up  for  the  Arab  faith,  that  her  last 
words  had  seemed  to  strike  against  the  religion  of  the  people 
whom  he  loved  with  an  odd,  concealed  passion  whose  fire  she 
began  to  feel  at  moments  as  she  grew  to  know  him  better. 

It  was  plain  from  their  manner  to  ea^h  other  that  their  for- 
mer slight  acquaintance  had  moved  towards  something  like  a 
pleasant  friendship. 

Domini  looked  as  if  she  were  no  longer  a  wonder-stricken 
sight-seer  in  this  marvellous  garden  of  the  sun,  but  as  if  she  had 
become  familiar  with  it.  Yet  her  wonder  was  not  gone.  It  was 
only  different.  There  was  less  sheer  amazement,  more  affection 
in  it.  As  she  had  said,  she  had  not  become  accustomed  to  the 
magic  of  Africa.  Its  strangeness,  its  contrasts  still  startled  and 


THE  GARDEN  i6t 

moved  her.  But  she  began  to  feel  as  if  she  belonged  to  Bern- 
Mora,  as  if  Beni-Mora  would  perhaps  miss  her  a  little  if  she 
went  away. 

Ten  days  had  passed  since  the  ride  to  Sidi-Zerzour — days 
rather  like  a  dream  to  Domini. 

What  she  had  sought  in  coming  to  Beni-Mora  she  was  surely 
finding.  Her  act  was  bringing  forth  its  fruit.  She  had  put  a 
gulf,  in  which  rolled  the  sea,  between  the  land  of  the  old  life  and 
the  land  in  which  at  least  the  new  life  was  to  begin.  The  com- 
pleteness of  the  severance  had  acted  upon  her  like  a  blow  that 
does  not  stun,  but  wakens.  The  days  went  like  a  dream,  but  in 
the  dream  there  was  the  stir  of  birth.  Her  lassitude  was  perma- 
nently gone.  There  had  been  no  returning  after  the  first  hours 
of  excitement.  The  frost  that  had  numbed  her  senses  had 
utterly  melted  away.  Who  could  be  frost-bound  in  this  land  of 
fire?  She  had  longed  for  peace  and  she  was  surely  finding  it, 
but  it  was  a  peace  without  stagnation.  Hope  dwelt  in  it,  and 
expectancy,  vague  but  persistent.  As  to  forgetfulness,  some- 
times she  woke  from  the  dream  and  was  almost  dazed,  almost 
ashamed  to  think  how  much  she  was  forgetting,  and  how  quickly. 
Her  European  life  and  friends — some  of  them  intimate  and  close 
— were  like  a  far-off  cloud  on  the  horizon,  flying  still  farther  be- 
fore a  steady  wind  that  set  from  her  to  it.  Soon  it  would  dis- 
appear, would  be  as  if  it  had  never  been.  Now  and  then,  with  a 
sort  of  fierce  obstinacy,  she  tried  to  stay  the  flight  she  had  de- 
sired, and  desired  still.  She  said  to  herself,  "  I  will  remember. 
It's  contemptible  to  forget  like  this.  It's  weak  to  be  able  to." 
Then  she  looked  at  the  mountains  or  the  desert,  at  two  Arabs 
playing  the  ladies'  game  under  the  shadow  of  a  cafe  wall,  or  at  a 
girl  in  dusty  orange  filling  a  goatskin  pitcher  at  a  well  beneath 
a  palm  tree,  and  she  succumbed  to  the  lulling  influence,  smiling 
as  they  smile  who  hear  the  gentle  ripple  of  the  waters  of  Lethe. 

She  heard  them  perhaps  most  clearly  when  she  wandered  in 
Count  Anteoni's  garden.  He  had  made  her  free  of  it  in  their 
first  interview.  She  had  ventured  to  take  him  at  his  word,  know- 
ing that  if  he  repented  she  would  divine  it.  He  had  made  her 
feel  that  he  had  not  repented.  Sometimes  she  did  not  see  him  as 
she  threaded  the  sandy  alleys  between  the  little  rills,  hearing  the 
distant  song  of  Larbi's  amorous  flute,  or  sat  in  the  dense  shade  of 
the  trees  watching  through  a  window-space  of  quivering  golden 
leaves  the  passing  of  the  caravans  along  the  desert  tracks  Some- 
times a  little  wreath  of  ascending  smoke,  curling  above  the  purple 
petals  of  bougainvilleas,  or  the  red  cloud  of  oleanders,  told  her  of 


162  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

his  presence  in  some  retired  thinking-place.  Oftener  he  joined 
her,  with  an  easy  politeness  that  did  not  conceal  his  oddity,  but 
clothed  it  in  a  pleasant  garment,  and  they  talked  for  a  while  or 
stayed  for  a  while  in  an  agreeable  silence  that  each  felt  to  be 
sympathetic. 

Domini  thought  of  him  as  a  new  species  of  man — a  hermit  of 
the  world.  He  knew  the  world  and  did  not  hate  it.  His  satire 
was  rarely  quite  ungentle.  He  did  not  strike  her  as  a  disap- 
pointed man  who  fled  to  solitude  in  bitterness  of  spirit,  but 
rather  as  an  imaginative  man  with  an  unusual  feeling  for  ro- 
mance, and  perhaps  a  desire  for  freedom  that  the  normal  civi- 
lised life  restrained  too  much.  He  loved  thought  as  many  love 
conversation,  silence  as  some  love  music.  Now  and  then  he  said 
a  sad  or  bitter  thing.  Sometimes  she  seemed  to  be  near  to  some- 
thing stern.  Sometimes  she  felt  as  if  there  were  a  secret  link 
which  connected  him  with  the  perfume-seller  in  his  little  dark- 
ened chamber,  with  the  legions  who  prayed  about  the  tomb  of 
Sidi-Zerzour.  But  these  moments  were  rare.  As  a  rule  he 
was  whimsical  and  kind,  with  the  kindness  of  a  good-hearted 
man  who  was  human  even  in  his  detachment  from  ordinary  hu- 
manity. His  humour  was  a  salt  with  plenty  of  savour.  His 
imagination  was  of  a  sort  which  interested  and  even  charmed  her. 

She  felt,  too,  that  she  interested  him  and  that  he  was  a  man 
not  readily  interested  in  ordinary  human  beings.  He  had  seen 
too  many  and  judged  too  shrewdly  and  too  swiftly  to  be  easily 
held  for  very  long.  She  had  no  ambition  to  hold  him,  and  had 
never  in  her  life  consciously  striven  to  attract  or  retain  any  man, 
but  she  was  woman  enough  to  find  his  obvious  pleasure  in  her 
society  agreeable.  She  thought  that  her  genuine  adoration  of  the 
garden  he  had  made,  of  the  land  in  which  it  was  set,  had  not  a 
little  to  do  with  the  happy  nature  of  their  intercourse.  For  she 
felt  certain  that  beneath  the  light  satire  of  his  manner,  his  often 
smiling  airs  of  detachment  and  quiet  independence,  there  was 
something  that  could  seek  almost  with  passion,  that  could  cling 
with  resolution,  that  could  even  love  with  persistence.  And  she 
fancied  that  he  sought  in  the  desert,  that  he  clung  to  its  mystery, 
that  he  loved  it  and  the  garden  he  had  created  in  it.  Once  she 
had  laughingly  called  him  a  desert  spirit.  He  had  smiled  as  if 
with  contentment. 

They  knew  little  of  each  other,  yet  they  had  become  friends 
in  the  garden  which  he  never  left. 

One  day  she  said  to  him : 

"  You  love  the  desert.     Why  do  you  never  go  into  it  ?  " 


THE  GARDEN  163 

"  I  prefer  to  watch  it,"  he  replied.  "  When  you  are  in  the 
desert  it  bewilders  you." 

She  remembered  what  she  had  felt  during  her  first  ride  with 
Androvsky. 

"  I  believe  you  are  afraid  of  it,"  she  said  challengingly, 

"  Fear  is  sometimes  the  beginning  of  wisdom,"  he  answered. 
"  But  you  are  without  it,  I  know." 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  Every  day  I  see  you  galloping  away  into  the  sun." 

She  thought  there  was  a  faint  sound  of  warning — or  was  it  of 
rebuke — in  his  voice.  It  made  her  feel  defiant. 

"  I  think  you  lose  a  great  deal  by  not  galloping  into  the  sun 
too,"  she  said. 

"But  if  I  don't  ride?" 

That  made  her  think  of  Androvsky  and  his  angry  resolution. 
It  had  not  been  the  resolution  of  a  day.  Wearied  and  stiffened 
as  he  had  been  by  the  expedition  to  Sidi-Zerzour,  actually  injured 
by  his  fall — she  knew  from  Batouch  that  he  had  been  obliged  to 
call  in  the  Beni-Mora  doctor  to  bandage  his  shoulder — she  had 
been  roused  at  dawn  on  the  day  following  by  his  tread  on  the 
verandah.  She  had  lain  still  while  it  descended  the  staircase,  but 
then  the  sharp  neighing  of  a  horse  had  awakened  an  irresistible 
curiosity  in  her.  She  had  got  up,  wrapped  herself  in  a  fur  coat 
and  slipped  out  on  to  the  verandah.  The  sun  was  not  above  the 
horizon  line  of  the  desert,  but  the  darkness  of  night  was  melting 
into  a  luminous  grey.  The  air  was  almost  cold.  The  palms 
looked  spectral,  even  terrible,  the  empty  and  silent  gardens 
melancholy  and  dangerous.  It  was  not  an  hour  for  activity,  for 
determination,  but  for  reverie,  for  apprehension. 

Below,  a  sleepy  Arab  boy,  his  hood  drawn  over  his  head,  held 
the  chestnut  horse  by  the  bridle.  Androvsky  came  out  from  the 
arcade.  He  wore  a  cap  pulled  down  to  his  eyebrows,  which 
changed  his  appearance,  giving  him,  as  seen  from  above,  the  look 
of  a  groom  or  stable  hand.  He  stood  for  a  minute  and  stared  at 
the  horse.  Then  he  limped  round  to  the  left  side  and  carefully 
mounted,  following  out  the  directions  Domini  had  given  him  the 
previous  day :  to  avoid  touching  the  animal  with  his  foot,  to  have 
the  rein  in  his  fingers  before  leaving  the  ground,  and  to  come 
down  in  the  saddle  as  lightly  as  possible.  She  noted  that  all  her 
hints  were  taken  with  infinite  precaution.  Once  on  the  horse  he 
tried  to  sit  up  straight,  but  found  the  effort  too  great  in  his  weary 
and  bruised  condition.  He  leaned  forward  over  the  saddle  peak, 
and  rode  away  in  the  luminous  greyness  towards  the  desert. 


1 64  THE   GARDEN   OF   ALLAH 

The  horse  went  quietly,  as  if  affected  by  the  mystery  of  the  still 
hour.  Horse  and  rider  disappeared.  The  Arab  boy  wandered 
off  in  the  direction  of  the  village.  But  Domini  remained  looking 
after  Androvsky.  She  saw  nothing  but  the  grim  palms  and  the 
spectral  atmosphere  in  which  the  desert  lay.  Yet  she  did  not 
move  till  a  red  spear  was  thrust  up  out  of  the  east  towards  the 
last  waning  star. 

He  had  gone  to  learn  his  lesson  in  the  desert. 

Three  days  afterwards  she  rode  with  him  again.  She  did  not 
let  him  know  of  her  presence  on  the  verandah,  and  he  said 
nothing  of  his  departure  in  the  dawn.  He  spoke  very  little  and 
seemed  much  occupied  with  his  horse,  and  she  saw  that  he  was 
more  than  determined — that  he  was  apt  at  acquiring  control  of  a 
physical  exercise  new  to  him.  His  great  strength  stood  him  in 
good  stead.  Only  a  man  hard  in  the  body  could  have  so  rapidly 
recovered  from  the  effects  of  that  first  day  of  defeat  and  struggle. 
His  absolute  reticence  about  his  efforts  and  the  iron  will  that 
prompted  them  pleased  Domini.  She  found  them  worthy  of 
a  man. 

She  rode  with  him  on  three  occasions,  twice  in  the  oasis 
through  the  brown  villages,  once  out  into  the  desert  on  the 
caravan  road  that  Batouch  had  told  her  led  at  last  to  Tom- 
bouctou.  They  did  not  travel  far  along  it,  but  Domini  knew  at 
once  that  this  route  held  more  fascination  for  her  than  the  route 
to  Sidi-Zerzour.  There  was  far  more  sand  in  this  region  of  the 
desert.  The  little  humps  crowned  with  the  scrub  the  camels 
feed  on  were  fewer,  so  that  the  flatness  of  the  ground  was  more 
definite.  Here  and  there  large  dunes  of  golden-coloured  sand 
rose,  some  straight  as  city  walls,  some  curved  like  seats  in  an 
amphitheatre,  others  indented,  crenellated  like  battlements,  un- 
dulating in  beast-like  shapes.  The  distant  panorama  of  desert 
was  unbroken  by  any  visible  oasis  and  powerfully  suggested 
Eternity  to  Domini. 

"  When  I  go  out  into  the  desert  for  my  long  journey  I  shall 
go  by  this  road,"  she  said  to  Androvsky. 

"  You  are  going  on  a  journey?  "  he  said,  looking  at  her  as  if 
startled. 

"  Some  day." 

"All  alone?" 

"  I  suppose  I  must  take  a  caravan,  two  or  three  Arabs,  some 
horses,  a  tent  or  two.  It's  easy  to  manage.  Batouch  will 
arrange  it  for  me." 

Androvsky  still  looked  startled,  and  half  angry,  she  thought. 


THE  'GARDEN  165 

They  had  pulled  up  their  horses  among  the  sand  dunes.  It  was 
near  sunset,  and  the  breath  of  evening  was  in  the  air,  making  its 
coolness  even  more  ethereal,  more  thinly  pure  than  in  the  day- 
time. The  atmosphere  was  so  clear  that  when  they  glanced 
back  they  could  see  the  flag  fluttering  upon  the  white  tower  of 
the  great  hotel  of  Beni-Mora,  many  kilometres  away  among  the 
palms ;  so  still  that  they  could  hear  the  bark  of  a  Kabyle  dog  far 
off  near  a  nomad's  tent  pitched  in  the  green  land  by  the  water- 
springs  of  old  Beni-Mora.  When  they  looked  in  front  of  them 
they  seemed  to  see  thousands  of  leagues  of  flatness,  stretching  on 
and  on  till  the  pale  yellowish  brown  of  it  grew  darker,  merged 
into  a  strange  blueness,  like  the  blue  of  a  hot  mist  above  a 
southern  lake,  then  into  violet,  then  into — the  thing  they  could 
not  see,  the  summoning  thing  whose  voice  Domini's  imagination 
heard,  like  a  remote  and  thrilling  echo,  whenever  she  was  in 
the  desert. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  going  on  a  journey,  Madame," 
Androvsky  said. 

"Don't  you  remember?"  she  rejoined  laughingly,  "that  I 
told  you  on  the  tower  I  thought  peace  must  dwell  out  there. 
Well,  some  day  I  shall  set  out  to  find  it." 

"  That  seems  a  long  time  ago,  Madame,"  he  muttered. 

Sometimes,  when  speaking  to  her,  he  dropped  his  voice  till 
she  could  scarcely  hear  him,  and  sounded  like  a  man  commun- 
ing with  himself. 

A  red  light  from  the  sinking  sun  fell  upon  the  dunes.  As 
they  rode  back  over  them  their  horses  seemed  to  be  wading 
through  a  silent  sea  of  blood.  The  sky  in  the  west  looked  like 
an  enormous  conflagration,  in  which  tortured  things  were 
struggling  and  lifting  twisted  arms. 

Domini's  acquaintance  with  Androvsky  had  not  progressed 
as  easily  and  pleasantly  as  her  intercourse  with  Count  Anteoni. 
She  recognised  that  he  was  what  is  called  a  "  difficult  man." 
Now  and  then,  as  if  under  the  prompting  influence  of  some 
secret  and  violent  emotion,  he  spoke  with  apparent  naturalness, 
spoke  perhaps  out  of  his  heart.  Each  time  he  did  so  she  noticed 
that  there  was  something  of  either  doubt  or  amazement  in  what 
he  said.  She  gathered  that  he  was  slow  to  rely,  quick  to  mis- 
trust. She  gathered,  too,  that  very  many  things  surprised  him, 
and  felt  sure  that  he  hid  nearly  all  of  them  from  her,  and  would 
— had  not  his  own  will  sometimes  betrayed  him — have  hidden 
all.  His  reserve  was  as  intense  as  everything  about  him.  There 
was  a  fierceness  in  it  that  revealed  its  existence.  He  always 


i66  THE  GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

conveyed  to  her  a  feeling  of  strength,  physical  and  mental.  Yet 
he  always  conveyed,  too,  a  feeling  of  uneasiness.  To  a  woman 
of  Domini's  temperament  uneasiness  usually  implies  a  public  or 
secret  weakness.  In  Androvsky's  she  seemed  to  be  aware  of  pas- 
sion, as  if  it  were  one  to  dash  obstacles  aside,  to  break  through 
doors  of  iron,  to  rush  out  into  the  open.  And  then — what  then  ? 
To  tremble  at  the  world  before  him?  At  what  he  had  done? 
She  did  not  know.  But  she  did  know  that  even  in  his  uneasi- 
ness there  seemed  to  be  fibre,  muscle,  sinew,  nerve — all  which 
goes  to  make  strength,  swiftness. 

Speech  was  singularly  difficult  to  him.  Silence  seemed  to  be 
natural,  not  irksome.  After  a  few  words  he  fell  into  it  and  re- 
mained in  it.  And  he  was  less  self-conscious  in  silence  than  in 
speech.  He  seemed,  she  fancied,  to  feel  himself  safer,  more  a 
man  when  he  was  not  speaking.  To  him  the  use  of  words  was 
surely  like  a  yielding. 

He  had  a  peculiar  faculty  of  making  his  presence  felt  when 
he  was  silent,  as  if  directly  he  ceased  from  speaking  the  flame  in 
him  was  fanned  and  leaped  up  at  the  outside  world  beyond  its 
bars. 

She  did  not  know  whether  he  was  a  gentleman  or  not. 

If  anyone  had  asked  her,  before  she  came  to  Beni-Mora, 
whether  it  would  be  possible  for  her  to  take  four  solitary  rides 
with  a  man,  to  meet  him— if  only  for  a  few  minutes — every  day 
of  ten  days,  to  sit  opposite  to  him,  and  not  far  from  him,  at  meals 
during  the  same  space  of  time,  and  to  be  unable  to  say  to  herself 
whether  he  was  or  was  not  a  gentleman  by  birth  and  education — 
feeling  set  aside — she  would  have  answered  without  hesitation 
that  it  would  be  utterly  impossible.  Yet  so  it  was.  She  could 
not  decide.  She  could  not  place  him.  She  could  not  imagine 
what  his  parentage,  what  his  youth,  his  manhood  had  been.  She 
could  not  fancy  him  in  any  environment — save  that  golden  light, 
that  blue  radiance,  in  which  she  had  first  consciously  and  fully 
met  him  face  to  face.  She  could  not  hear  him  in  converse  with 
any  set  of  men  or  women,  or  invent,  in  her  mind,  what  he  might 
be  likely  to  say  to  them.  She  could  not  conceive  him  bound  by 
any  ties  of  home,  or  family,  mother,  sister,  wife,  child.  When 
she  looked  at  him,  thought  about  him,  he  presented  himself  to 
her  alone,  like  a  thing  in  the  air. 

Yet  he  was  more  male  than  other  men,  breathed  humanity — 
of  some  kind — as  fire  breathes  heat. 

The  child  there  was  in  him  almost  confused  her,  made  her 
wonder  whether  long  contact  with  the  world  had  tarnished  her 


THE  GARDEN  167 

own  original  simplicity.  But  she  only  saw  the  child  in  him 
now  and  then,  and  she  fancied  that  it,  too,  he  was  anxious  to 
conceal. 

This  man  had  certainly  a  power  to  rouse  feeling  in  others. 
She  knew  it  by  her  own  experience.  By  turns  he  had  made  her 
feel  motherly,  protecting,  curious,  constrained,  passionate, 
energetic,  timid — yes,  almost  timid  and  shy.  No  other  human 
being  had  ever,  even  at  moments,  thus  got  the  better  of  her 
natural  audacity,  lack  of  self-consciousness,  and  inherent,  almost 
boyish,  boldness.  Nor  was  she  aware  what  it  was  in  him  which 
sometimes  made  her  uncertain  of  herself. 

She  wondered.     But  he  often  woke  up  wonder  in  her. 

Despite  their  rides,  their  moments  of  intercourse  in  the  hotel, 
on  the  verandah,  she  scarcely  felt  more  intimate  with  him  than 
she  had  at  first.  Sometimes  indeed  she  thought  that  she  felt 
less  so,  that  the  moment  when  the  train  ran  out  of  the  tunnel 
into  the  blue  country  was  the  moment  in  which  they  had  been 
nearest  to  each  other  since  they  trod  the  verges  of  each  other's 
lives. 

She  had  never  definitely  said  to  herself:  "  Do  I  like  him  or 
dislike  him?" 

Now,  as  she  sat  with  Count  Anteoni  watching  the  noon,  the 
half-drowsy,  half-imaginative  expression  had  gone  out  of  her 
face.  She  looked  rather  rigid,  rather  formidable. 

Androvsky  and  Count  Anteoni  had  never  met.  The  Count 
had  seen  Androvsky  in  the  distance  from  his  garden  more  than 
once,  but  Androvsky  had  not  seen  him.  The  meeting  that  was 
about  to  take  place  was  due  to  Domini.  She  had  spoken  to 
Androvsky  on  several  occasions  of  the  romantic  beauty  of  this 
desert  garden. 

"  It  is  like  a  garden  of  the  Arabian  Nights/'  she  had  said. 

He  did  not  look  enlightened,  and  she  was  moved  to  ask  him 
abruptly  whether  he  had  ever  read  the  famous  book.  He  had 
not.  A  doubt  came  to  her  whether  he  had  ever  even  heard  of  it. 
She  mentioned  the  fact  of  Count  Anteoni's  having  made  the 
garden,  and  spoke  of  him,  sketching  lightly  his  whimsicality,  his 
affection  for  the  Arabs,  his  love  of  solitude,  and  of  African  life. 
She  also  mentioned  that  he  was  by  birth  a  Roman. 

"  But  scarcely  of  the  black  world  I  should  imagine,"  she 
added. 

Androvsky  said  nothing. 

"  You  should  go  and  see  the  garden,"  she  continued.  "  Count 
s Anteoni  allows  visitors  to  explore  it." 


170  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

garden,"  she  said  before  he  could  reply.  "  Count  Anteoni  is 
half  angry  with  you  for  being  an  exception." 

"  But — but,  Madame,  how  can  Monsieur  the  Count  know 
that  I  am  here?  I  have  not  seen  him." 

"  He  knows  there  is  a  second  traveller,  and  he's  a  hospitable 
man.  Monsieur  Androvsky,  I  want  you  to  come ;  I  want  you  to 
see  the  garden." 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you,  Madame." 

The  reluctance  in  his  voice  was  extreme.  Yet  he  did  not  like 
to  say  no.  While  he  hesitated,  Domini  continued : 

"  You  remember  when  I  asked  you  to  ride?  " 

11  Yes,  Madame." 

"  That  was  new  to  you.  Well,  it  has  given  you  pleasure, 
hasn't  it?" 

"  Yes,  Madame." 

"  So  will  the  garden.  I  want  to  put  another  pleasure  into 
your  life." 

She  had  begun  to  speak  with  the  light  persuasiveness  of  a 
woman  of  the  world  wishing  to  overcome  a  man's  diffidence  or 
obstinacy,  but  while  she  said  the  words  she  felt  a  sudden  earnest- 
ness rush  over  her.  It  went  into  the  voice,  and  surely  smote 
upon  him  like  a  gust  of  the  hot  wind  that  sometimes  blows  out 
of  the  desert. 

"  I  shall  come,  Madame,"  he  said  quickly. 

"  Friday.  I  may  be  in  the  garden  in  the  morning.  I'll  meet 
you  at  the  gate  at  half-past  twelve." 

"Friday?  "he  said. 

Already  he  seemed  to  be  wavering  in  his  acceptance.  Domini 
did  not  stay  with  him  any  longer. 

"  I'm  glad,"  she  said  in  a  finishing  tone. 

And  she  went  away. 

Now  Count  Anteoni  told  her  that  he  had  invited  the  priest. 
She  felt  vexed,  and  her  face  showed  that  she  did.  A  cloud  came 
down  and  immediately  she  looked  changed  and  disquieting.  Yet 
she  liked  the  priest.  As  she  sat  in  silence  her  vexation  became 
more  profound.  She  felt  certain  that  if  Androvsky  had  known 
the  priest  was  coming  he  would  not  have  accepted  the  invitation. 
She  wished  him  to  come,  yet  she  wished  he  had  known.  He 
might  think  that  she  had  known  the  fact  and  had  concealed  it. 
She  did  not  suppose  for  a  moment  that  he  disliked  Father 
Roubier  personally,  but  he  certainly  avoided  him.  He  bowed  to 
him  in  the  coffee-room  of  the  hotel,  but  never  spoke  to  him. 
Batouch  had  told  her  about  the  episode  with  Bous-Bous.  And 


THE  GARDEN  171 

she  had  seen  Bous-Bous  endeavour  to  renew  the  intimacy  and 
repulsed  with  determination.  Androvsky  must  dislike  the  priest- 
hood. He  might  fancy  that  she,  a  believing  Catholic,  had — a 
number  of  disagreeable  suppositions  ran  through  her  mind. 
She  had  always  been  inclined  to  hate  the  propagandist  since  the 
tragedy  in  her  family.  It  was  a  pity  Count  Anteoni  had  not  in- 
dulged his  imp  in  a  different  fashion.  The  beauty  of  the  noon 
seemed  spoiled. 

"  Forgive  my  malice,"  Count  Anteoni  said.  "  It  was  really  a 
thing  of  thistledown.  Can  it  be  going  to  do  harm?  I  can 
scarcely  think  so." 

"  No,  no." 

She  roused  herself,  with  the  instinct  of  a  woman  who  has  lived 
much  in  the  world,  to  conceal  the  vexation  that,  visible,  would 
cause  a  depression  to  stand  in  the  natural  place  of  cheerfulness. 

"  The  desert  is  making  me  abominably  natural,"  she  thought. 

At  this  moment  the  black  figure  of  Father  Roubier  came  out 
of  the  shadows  of  the  trees  with  Bous-Bous  trotting  importantly 
beside  it. 

"  Ah,  Father,"  said  Count  Anteoni,  going  to  meet  him,  while 
Domini  got  up  from  her  chair,  "  it  is  good  of  you  to  come  out  in 
the  sun  to  eat  fish  with  such  a  bad  parishioner  as  I  am.  Your 
little  companion  is  welcome." 

He  patted  Bous-Bous,  who  took  little  notice  of  him. 

"  You  know  Miss  Enfilden,  I  think?  "  continued  the  Count. 

"  Father  Roubier  and  I  meet  every  day,"  said  Domini,  smiling. 

"  Mademoiselle  has  been  good  enough  to  take  a  kind  interest 
in  the  humble  work  of  the  Church  in  Beni-Mora,"  said  the  priest 
with  the  serious  simplicity  characteristic  of  him. 

He  was  a  sincere  man,  utterly  without  pretension,  and,  as  such 
men  often  are,  quietly  at  home  with  anybody  of  whatever  class 
or  creed. 

"  I  must  go  to  the  garden  gate,"  Domini  said.  "  Will  you 
excuse, me  for  a  moment?  " 

"  To  meet  Monsieur  Androvsky?  Let  us  accompany  you  if 
Father  Roubier " 

"  Please  don't  trouble.     I  won't  be  a  minute." 

Something  in  her  voice  made  Count  Anteoni  at  once  acquiesce, 
defying  his  courteous  instinct. 

"  We  will  wait  for  you  here,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  whimsical  plea,  for  forgiveness  in  his  eyes. 
Domini's  did  not  reject  it ;  they  did  not  answer  it.  She  walked 
away,  and  the  two  men  looked  after  her  tall  figure  with  admira- 


172  THE  GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

tion.  As  she  went  along  the  sand  paths  between  the  little 
streams,  and  came  into  the  deep  shade,  her  vexation  seemed  to 
grow  darker  like  the  garden  ways.  For  a  moment  she  thought 
she  understood  the  sensations  that  must  surely  sometimes  beset  a 
treacherous  woman.  Yet  she  was  incapable  of  treachery.  Smain 
was  standing  dreamily  on  the  great  sweep  of  sand  before  the 
villa.  She  and  he  were  old  friends  now,  and  every  day  he 
calmly  gave  her  a  flower  when  she  came  into  the  garden. 

"  What  time  is  it,  Smain  ?  " 

"  Nearly  half-past  twelve,  Madame." 

"  Will  you  open  the  door  and  see  if  anyone  is  coming  ?  " 

He  went  towards  the  great  door,  and  Domini  sat  down  on  a 
bench  under  the  evergreen  roof  to  wait.  She  had  seldom  felt 
more  discomposed,  and  began  to  reason  with  herself  almost 
angrily.  Even  if  the  presence  of  the  priest  was  unpleasant  to 
Androvsky,  why  should  she  mind?  Antagonism  to  the  priest- 
hood was  certainly  not  a  mental  condition  to  be  fostered,  but  a 
prejudice  to  be  broken  down.  But  she  had  wished — she  still 
wished  with  ardour — that  Androvsky's  first  visit  to  the  garden 
should  be  a  happy  one,  should  pass  off  delightfully.  She  had  a 
dawning  instinct  to  make  things  smooth  for  him.  Surely  they 
had  been  rough  in  the  past,  rougher  even  than  for  herself.  And 
she  wondered  for  an  instant  whether  he  had  come  to  Beni-Mora, 
as  she  had  come,  vaguely  seeking  for  a  happiness  scarcely 
embodied  in  a  definite  thought. 

"  There  is  a  gentleman  coming,  Madame." 

It  was  the  soft  voice  of  Smain  from  the  gate.  In  a  moment 
Androvsky  stood  before  it.  Domini  saw  him  framed  in  the  white 
wood,  with  a  brilliant  blue  behind  him  and  a  narrow  glimpse  of 
the  watercourse.  He  was  standing  still  and  hesitating. 

"  Monsieur  Androvsky!  "  she  called. 

He  started,  looked  across  the  sand,  and  stepped  into  the  garden 
with  a  sort  of  reluctant  caution  that  pained  her,  she  scarcely 
knew  why.  She  got  up  and  went  towards  him,  and  they  met 
full  in  the  sunshine. 

"  I  came  to  be  your  cicerone." 

"  Thank  you,  Madame." 

There  was  the  click  of  wood  striking  against  wood  as  Smain 
closed  the  gate.  Androvsky  turned  quickly  and  looked  behind 
him.  His  demeanour  was  that  of  a  man  whose  nerves  were  tor- 
menting him.  Domini  began  to  dread  telling  him  of  the  pres- 
ence of  the  priest,  and,  characteristically,  did  without  hesitation 
what  she  feared  to  do. 


THE  GARDEN  173 

"  This  is  the  way,"  she  said. 

Then,  as  they  ti  .  aed  into  the  shadov-  of  the  trees  and  began 
to  walk  between  the  rills  of  water,  she  aucied  abruptly : 

"  Father  Roubier  is  here  already,  so  our  party  is  com- 
plete." 

Androvsky  stood  still. 

"  Father  Roubier !     You  did  not  tell  me  he  was  coming." 

"  I  did  not  knov  it  till  five  minutes  a°;o." 

She  stood  still  too,  and  looked  at  hin..  There  was  a  flaming 
of  distrust  in  his  eyes,  his  lips  were  compressed,  and  his  whole 
body  betokened  hostility. 

"  I  did  not  understand.  I  thought  Senor  Anteoni  would  be 
alone  here." 

"  Father  Roubier  is  a  pleasant  companion,  sincere  and  simple. 
Everyone  likes  him." 

"  No  doubt,  Madame.  But — the  fact  is  I  " — he  hesitated, 
then  added,  almost  with  violence — "  I  do  not  care  for  priests." 

"I  am  sorry.  Still,  for  once — for  an  hour — you  can 
surely » 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  While  she  was  speaking  she 
felt  the  banality  of  such  phrases  spoken  to  such  a  man,  and 
suddenly  changed  tone  and  manner. 

"  Monsieur  Androvsky,"  sjie  said,  laying  one  hand  on  his  arm, 
"  I  knew  you  would  not  like  Father  Roubier's  being  here.  If  I 
had  known  he  was  coming  I  should  have  told  you  in  order  that 
you  might  have  kept  away  if  you  wished  to.  But  now  that  you 
are  here — now  that  Sma'in  has  let  you  in  and  the  Count  and 
Father  Roubier  must  know  of  it,  I  am  sure  you  will  stay  and 
govern  your  dislike.  You  intend  to  turn  back.  I  see  that. 
Well,  I  ask  you  to  stay." 

She  was  not  thinking  of  herself,  but  of  him.  Instinct  told 
her  to  teach  him  the  way  to  conceal  his  aversion.  Retreat  would 
proclaim  it. 

"  For  yourself  I  ask  you,"  she  added.  "  If  you  go,  you  tell 
them  what  you  have  told  me.  You  don't  wish  to  do  that." 

They  looked  at  each  other.  Then,  without  a  word,  he  walked 
on  again.  As  she  kept  beside  him  she  felt  as  if  in  that  moment 
their  acquaintanceship  had  sprung  forward,  like  a  thing  that  had 
been  forcibly  restrained  and  that  was  now  slmrply  released. 
They  did  not  speak  again  till  they  saw,  at  the  end  of  an  alley,  the 
Count  and  the  priest  standing  together  beneath  the  jamelon  tree. 
Bous-Bous  ran  forward  barking,  and  Domini  was  conscious  that 
Androvsky  braced  himself  up,  like  a  fighter  stepping  into  the 


174  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

arena.  Her  keen  sensitiveness  of  mind  and  body  was  so  infected 
by  his  secret  impetuosity  of  feeling  that  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  his 
encounter  with  the  two  men  framed  in  the  sunlight  were  a  great 
event  which  might  be  fraught  with  strange  consequences.  She 
almost  held  her  breath  as  she  and  Androvsky  came  down  the  path 
and  the  fierce  sunrays  reached  out  to  light  up  their  faces. 

Count  Anteoni  stepped  forward  to  greet  them. 

"  Monsieur  Androvsky — Count  Anteoni,''  she  said. 

The  hands  of  the  two  men  met.  She  saw  that  Androvsky's 
was  lifted  reluctantly. 

"  Welcome  to  my  garden,"  Count  Anteoni  said  with  his 
invariable  easy  courtesy.  "  Every  traveller  has  to  pay  his  tribute 
to  my  domain.  I  dare  to  exact  that  as  the  oldest  European 
inhabitant  of  Beni-Mora." 

Androvsky  said  nothing.  His  eyes  were  on  the  priest.  The 
Count  noticed  it,  and  added: 

"  Do  you  know  Father  Roubier?  " 

"  We  have  often  seen  each  other  in  the  hotel,"  Father  Roubier 
said  with  his  usual  straightforward  simplicity. 

He  held  out  his  hand,  but  Androvsky  bowed  hastily  and 
awkwardly  and  did  not  seem  to  see  it.  Domini  glanced  at  Count 
Anteoni,  and  surprised  a  piercing  expression  in  his  bright  eyes. 
It  died  away  at  once,  and  he  said : 

"  Let  us  go  to  the  salle-a-manger.  Dejeuner  will  be  ready, 
Miss  Enfilden." 

She  joined  him,  concealing  her  reluctance  to  leave  Androvsky 
with  the  priest,  and  walked  beside  him  down  the  path,  preceded 
by  Bous-Bous. 

"  Is  my  fete  going  to  be  a  failure?  "  he  murmured. 

She  did  not  reply.  Her  heart  was  full  of  vexation,  almost  of 
bitterness.  She  felt  angry  with  Count  Anteoni,  with  Androvsky, 
with  herself.  She  almost  felt  angry  with  poor  Father  Roubier. 

"Forgive  me!  do  forgive  me!"  the  Count  whispered.  "I 
meant  no  harm." 

She  forced  herself  to  smile,  but  the  silence  behind  them, 
where  the  two  men  were  following,  oppressed  her.  If  only 
Androvsky  would  speak!  He  had  not  said  one  word  since 
they  were  all  together.  Suddenly  she  turned  her  head  and 
said: 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  palms,  Monsieur  Androvsky?  Aren't 
they  magnificent  ?  " 

Her  voice  was  challenging,  imperative.  It  commanded  him 
to  rouse  himself,  to  speak,  as  a  touch  of  the  lash  commands  a 


THE  GARDEN  175 

horse  to  quicken  his  pace.  Androvsky  raised  his  head,  which 
had  been  sunk  on  his  breast  as  he  walked. 

"  Palms!"  he  said  confusedly.     "  Yes,  they  are  wonderful." 

"  You  care  for  trees?  "  asked  the  Count,  following  Domini's 
lead  and  speaking  with  a  definite  intention  to  force  a  conver- 
sation. 

"  Yes,  Monsieur,  certainly." 

"  I  have  some  wonderful  fellows  here.  After  dejeuner  you 
must  let  me  show  them  to  you.  I  spent  years  in  collecting  my 
children  and  teaching  them  to  live  rightly  in  the  desert." 

Very  naturally,  while  he  spoke,  he  had  joined  Androvsky,  and 
now  walked  on  with  him,  pointing  out  the  different  varieties  of 
trees.  Domini  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  relief  and  of  a  strong 
feeling  of  gratitude  to  their  host.  Following  upon  the  gratitude 
came  a  less  pleasant  consciousness  of  Androvsky's  lack  of  good 
breeding.  He  was  certainly  not  a  man  of  the  world,  whatever 
he  might  be.  To-day,  perhaps  absurdly,  she  felt  responsible  for 
him,  and  as  if  he  owed  it  to  her  to  bear  himself  bravely  and 
govern  his  dislikes  if  they  clashed  with  the  feelings  of  his  com- 
panions. She  longed  hotly  for  him  to  make  a  good  impression, 
and,  when  her  eyes  met  Father  Roubier's,  was  almost  moved  to 
ask  his  pardon  for  Androvsky's  rudeness.  But  the  Father  seemed 
unconscious  of  it,  and  began  to  speak  about  the  splendour  of  the 
African  vegetation. 

"Does  not  its  luxuriance  surprise  you  after  England?"  he 
said. 

"  No,"  she  replied  bluntly.  "  Ever  since  I  have  been  in 
Africa  I  have  felt  that  I  was  in  a  land  of  passionate  growth." 

"  But — the  desert  ?  "  he  replied  with  a  gesture  towards  the 
long  flats  of  the  Sahara,  which  were  still  visible  between  the 
trees. 

"  I  should  find  it  there  too,"  she  answered.  "  There,  perhaps, 
most  of  all." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  gentle  wonder.  She  did  not  explain 
that  she  was  no  longer  thinking  of  growth  in  Nature. 

The  salle-a-manger  stood  at  the  end  of  a  broad  avenue  of 
palms  not  far  from  the  villa.  Two  Arab  servants  were  waiting 
on  each  side  of  the  white  step  that  led  into  an  ante-room  filled 
with  divans  and  coffee-tables.  Beyond  was  a  lofty  apartment 
with  an  arched  roof,  in  the  centre  of  which  was  an  oval  table 
laid  for  breakfast,  and  decorated  with  masses  of  trumpet-shaped 
scarLet  flowers  in  silver  vases.  Behind  each  of  the  four  high- 
backed  chairs  stood  an  Arab  motionless  as  a  statue.  Evidently 


176  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

the  Count's  fete  was  to  be  attended  by  a  good  deal  of  ceremony. 
Domini  felt  sorry,  though  not  for  herself.  She  had  been  ac- 
customed to  ceremony  all  her  life,  and  noticed  it,  as  a  rule,  almost 
as  little  as  the  air  she  breathed.  But  she  feared  that  to 
Androvsky  it  would  be  novel  and  unpleasant.  As  they  came 
into  the  shady  room  she  saw  him  glance  swiftly  at  the  walls 
covered  with  dark  Persian  hangings,  at  the  servants  in  their 
embroidered  jackets,  wide  trousers,  and  snow-white  turbans,  at 
the  vivid  flowers  on  the  table,  then  at  the  tall  windows,  over 
which  flexible  outside  blinds,  dull  green  in  colour,  were  drawn ; 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  feeling  like  a  trapped  animal, 
full  of  a  fury  of  uneasiness.  Father  Roubier's  unconscious 
serenity  in  the  midst  of  a  luxury  to  which  he  was  quite  unac- 
customed emphasised  Androvsky 's  secret  agitation,  which  was  no 
secret  to  Domini,  and  which  she  knew  must  be  obvious  to  Count 
Anteoni.  She  began  to  wish  ardently  that  she  had  let  Androvsky 
follow  his  impulse  to  go  when  he  heard  of  Father  Roubier's 
presence. 

They  sat  down.  She  was  on  the  Count's  right  hand,  with 
Androvsky  opposite  to  her  and  Father  Roubier  on  her  left.  As 
they  took  their  places  she  and  the  Father  said  a  silent  grace 
and  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross,  and  when  she  glanced  up  after 
doing  so  she  saw  Androvsky's  hand  lifted  to  his  forehead.  For 
a  moment  she  fancied  that  he  had  joined  in  the  tiny  prayer, 
and  was  about  to  make  the  sacred  sign,  but  as  she  looked  at  him 
his  hand  fell  heavily  to  the  table.  The  glasses  by  his  plate 
jingled. 

"  I  only  remembered  this  morning  that  this  is  a  jour  maigre" 
said  Count  Anteoni  as  they  unfolded  their  napkins.  "  I  am 
afraid,  Father  Roubier,  you  will  not  be  able  to  do  full  justice  to 
my  chef,  Hamdane,  although  he  has  thought  of  you  and  done 
his  best  for  you.  But  I  hope  Miss  Enfilden  and " 

"  I  keep  Friday,"  Domini  interrupted  quietly. 

"Yes?    Poor  Hamdane!" 

He  looked  in  grave  despair,  but  she  knew  that  he  was  really 
pleased  that  she  kept  the  fast  day. 

"  Anyhow,"  he  continued,  "  I  hope  that  you,  Monsieur 
Androvsky,  will  be  able  to  join  me  in  testing  Hamdane's  powers 
to  the  full.  Or  are  you  too " 

He  did  not  continue,  for  Androvsky  at  once  said,  in  a  loud 
and  firm  voice: 

"  I  keep  no  fast  days." 

The  words  sounded  like  a  defiance  flung  at  the  two  Catholics, 


THE  GARDEN  177 

and  for  a  moment  Domini  thought  that  Father  Roubier  was 
going  to  treat  them  as  a  challenge,  for  he  lifted  his  head  and 
there  was  a  flash  of  sudden  fire  in  his  eyes.  But  he  only  said, 
turning  to  the  Count: 

"  I  think  Mademoiselle  and  I  shall  find  our  little  Ramadan  a 
very  easy  business.  I  once  breakfasted  with  you  on  a  Friday — 
two  years  ago  it  was,  I  think — and  I  have  not  forgotten  the 
banquet  you  gave  me." 

Domini  felt  as  if  the  priest  had  snubbed  Androvsky,  as  a 
saint  might  snub,  without  knowing  that  he  did  so.  She  was 
angry  with  Androvsky,  and  yet  she  was  full  of  pity  for  him. 
Why  could  he  not  meet  courtesy  with  graciousness  ?  There  was 
something  almost  inhuman  in  his  demeanour.  To-day  he  had 
returned  to  his  worst  self,  to  the  man  who  had  twice  treated  her 
with  brutal  rudeness. 

"  Do  the  Arabs  really  keep  Ramadan  strictly  ?  "  she  asked, 
looking  away  from  Androvsky. 

"  Very,"  said  Father  Roubier.  "  Although,  of  course,  I  am 
not  in  sympathy  with  their  religion,  I  have  often  been  moved  by 
their  adherence  to  its  rules.  There  is  something  very  grand  in 
the  human  heart  deliberately  taking  upon  itself  the  yoke  of 
discipline." 

"  Islam — the  very  word  means  the  surrender  of  the  human 
will  to  the  will  of  God,"  said  Count  Anteoni.  "  That  word  and 
its  meaning  lie  like  the  shadow  of  a  commanding  hand  on  the 
soul  of  every  Arab,  even  of  the  absinthe-drinking  renegades  one 
sees  here  and  there  who  have  caught  the  vices  of  their 
conquerors.  In  the  greatest  scoundrel  that  the  Prophet's  robe 
covers  there  is  an  abiding  and  acute  sense  of  necessary  surrender. 
The  Arabs,  at  any  rate,  do  not  buzz  against  their  Creator,  like 
midges  raging  at  the  sun  in  whose  beams  they  are  dancing." 

"  No,"  assented  the  priest.  "  At  least  in  that  respect  they 
are  superior  to  many  who  call  themselves  Christians.  Their 
pride  is  immense,  but  it  never  makes  itself  ridiculous." 

"  You  mean  by  trying  to  defy  the  Divine  Will  ? "  said 
Domini. 

"  Exactly,  Mademoiselle." 

She  thought  of  her  dead  father. 

The  servants  stole  round  the  table,  handing  various  dishes 
noiselessly.  One  of  them,  at  this  moment,  poured  red  wine  into 
Androvsky's  glass.  He  uttered  a  low  exclamation  that  sounded 
like  the  beginning  of  a  protest  hastily  checked. 

"You  prefer  white  wine? "  said  Count  Anteoni, 


1 78  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

"  No,  thank  you,  Monsieur." 

He  lifted  the  glass  to  his  lips  and  drained  it. 

"Are  you  a  judge  of  wine?  "  added  the  Count.  "That  is 
made  from  my  own  grapes.  I  have  vineyards  near  Tunis." 

"  It  is  excellent,"  said  Androvsky. 

Domini  noticed  that  he  spoke  in  a  louder  voice  than  usual, 
as  if  he  were  making  a  determined  effort  to  throw  off  the  uneasi- 
ness that  evidently  oppressed  him.  He  ate  heartily,  choosing 
almost  ostentatiously  dishes  in  which  there  was  meat.  But 
everything  that  he  did,  even  this  eating  of  meat,  gave  her  the 
impression  that  he  was — subtly,  how  she  did  not  know — defying 
not  only  the  priest,  but  himself.  Now  and  then  she  glanced 
across  at  him,  and  when  she  did  so  he  was  always  looking  away 
from  her.  After  praising  the  wine  he  had  relapsed  into  silence, 
and  Count  Anteoni — she  thought  moved  by  a  very  delicate  sense 
of  tact — did  not  directly  address  him  again  just  then,  but  re- 
sumed the  interrupted  conversation  about  the  Arabs,  first  ex- 
plaining that  the  servants  understood  no  French.  He  discussed 
them  with  a  minute  knowledge  that  evidently  sprang  from  a 
very  real  affection,  and  presently  she  could  not  help  alluding  to 
this. 

"  I  think  you  love  the  Arabs  far  more  than  any  Europeans," 
she  said. 

He  fixed  his  bright  eyes  upon  her,  and  she  thought  that  just 
then  they  looked  brighter  than  ever  before. 

"Why?  "he  asked  quietly. 

"  Do  you  know  the  sound  that  comes  into  the  voice  of  a  lover 
of  children  when  it  speaks  of  a  child  ?  " 

"  Ah! — the  note  of  a  deep  indulgence?  " 

"  I  hear  it  in  yours  whenever  you  speak  of  the  Arabs." 

She  spoke  half  jestingly.  For  a  moment  he  did  not  reply. 
Then  he  said  to  the  priest: 

"  You  have  lived  long  in  Africa,  Father.  Have  not  you  some- 
thing of  the  same  feeling  towards  these  children  of  the  sun?  " 

"  Yes,  and  I  have  noticed  it  in  our  dead  Cardinal." 

"  Cardinal  Lavigerie." 

Androvsky  bent  over  his  plate.  He  seemed  suddenly  to 
withdraw  his  mind  forcibly  from  this  conversation  in  which  he 
was  taking  no  active  part,  as  if  he  refused  even  to  listen  to  it. 

"  He  is  your  hero,  I  know,"  the  Count  said  sympathetically. 

"  He  did  a  great  deal  for  me." 

"  And  for  Africa.     And  he  was  wise." 

"  You  mean  m  some  special  way?  "  Domini  said. 


THE  GARDEN  179 

"Yes.  He  looked  deep  enough  into  the  dark  souls  of  the 
desert  men  to  find  out  that  his  success  with  them  must  come 
chiefly  through  his  goodness  to  their  dark  bodies.  You  aren't 
shocked,  Father?" 

"  No,  no.     There  is  truth  in  that." 

But  the  priest  assented  rather  sadly. 

"  Mahomet  thought  too  much  of  the  body,"  he  added. 

Domini  saw  the  Count  compress  his  lips.  Then  he  turned  to 
Androvsky  and  said : 

"  Do  you  think  so,  Monsieur?  " 

It  was  a  definite,  a  resolute  attempt  to  draw  his  guest  into  the 
conversation.  Androvsky  could  not  ignore  it.  He  looked  up 
reluctantly  from  his  plate.  His  eyes  met  Domini's,  but  immedi- 
ately travelled  away  from  them. 

"  I  doubt "  he  said. 

He  paused,  laid  his  hands  on  the  table,  clasping  its  edge,  and 
continued  firmly,  even  with  a  sort  of  hard  violence : 

"  I  doubt  if  most  good  men,  or  men  who  want  to  be  good, 
think  enough  about  the  body,  consider  it  enough.  I  have  thought 
that.  I  think  it  still." 

As  he  finished  he  stared  at  the  priest,  almost  menacingly. 
Then,  as  if  moved  by  an  after-thought,  he  added : 

"  As  to  Mahomet,  I  know  very  little  about  him.  But  perhaps 
he  obtained  his  great  influence  by  recognising  that  the  bodies 
of  men  are  of  great  importance,  of  tremendous — tremendous 
importance." 

Domini  saw  that  the  interest  of  Count  Anteoni  in  his  guest 
was  suddenly  and  vitally  aroused  by  what  he  had  just  said,  per- 
haps even  more  by  his  peculiar  way  of  saying  it,  as  if  it  were 
forced  from  him  by  some  secret,  irresistible  compulsion.  And  the 
Count's  interest  seemed  to  take  hands  with  her  interest,  which 
had  had  a  much  longer  existence.  Father  Roubier,  however, 
broke  in  with  a  slightly  cold : 

"It  is  a  very  dangerous  thing,  I  think,  to  dwell  upon  the 
importance  of  the  perishable.  One  runs  the  risk  of  detracting 
from  the  much  greater  importance  of  the  imperishable." 

"  Yet  it's  the  starved  wolves  that  devour  the  villages,"  said 
Androvsky. 

For  the  first  time  Domini  felt  his  Russian  origin.  There  was 
a  silence.  Father  Roubier  looked  straight  before  him,  but 
Count  Anteoni's  eyes  were  fixed  piercingly  upon  Androvsky.  At 
last  he  said: 

"  May  I  ask,  Monsieur,  if  you  are  a  Russian  ?  " 


i8c  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  My  father  was.     But  I  have  never  set  foot  in  Russia." 

"  The  soul  that  I  find  in  the  art,  music,  literature  of  your 
country  is,  to  me,  the  most  interesting  soul  in  Europe,"  the 
Count  said  with  a  ring  of  deep  earnestness  in  his  grating  voice. 

Spoken  as  he  spoke  it,  no  compliment  could  have  been  more 
gracious,  even  moving.  But  Androvsky  only  replied  abruptly: 

"  I'm  afraid  I  know  nothing  of  all  that." 

Domini  felt  hot  with  a  sort  of  shame,  as  at  a  close  friend's 
public  display  of  ignorance.  She  began  to  speak  to  the  Count 
of  Russian  music,  books,  with  an  enthusiasm  that  was  sincere. 
For  she,  too,  had  found  in  the  soul  from  the  Steppes  a  meaning 
and  a  magic  that  had  taken  her  soul  prisoner.  And  suddenly, 
while  she  talked,  she  thought  of  the  Desert  as  the  burning  brother 
of  the  frigid  Steppes.  Was  it  the  wonder  of  the  eternal  flats  that 
had  spoken  to  her  inmost  heart  sometimes  in  London  concert- 
rooms,  in  her  room  at  night  when  she  read,  forgetting  time, 
which  spoke  to  her  now  more  fiercely  under  the  palms  of  Africa  ? 
At  the  thought  something  mystic  seemed  to  stand  in  her  en- 
thusiasm. The  mystery  of  space  floated  about  her.  But  she 
did  not  express  her  thought.  Count  Anteoni  expressed  it  for  her. 

"The  Steppes  and  the  Desert  are  akin,  you  know,"  he  said. 
"  Despite  the  opposition  of  frost  and  fire." 

"  Just  what  I  was  thinking!  "  she  exclaimed.  "  That  must  be 
why » 

She  stopped  short. 

"Yes?"  said  the  Count. 

Both  Father  Roubier  and  Androvsky  looked  at  her  with 
expectancy.  But  she  did  not  continue  her  sentence,  and  her 
failure  to  do  so  was  covered,  or  at  the  least  excused,  by  a 
diversion  that  secretly  she  blessed.  At  this  moment,  from  the 
ante-room,  there  came  a  sound  of  African  music,  both  soft  and 
barbarous.  First  there  was  only  one  reiterated  liquid  note,  clear 
and  glassy,  a  note  that  suggested  night  in  a  remote  place.  Then, 
beneath  it,  as  foundation  to  it,  rose  a  rustling  sound  as  of  a  forest 
of  reeds  through  which  a  breeze  went  rhythmically.  Into  this 
stole  the  broken  song  of  a  thin  instrument  with  a  timbre  rustic 
and  antique  as  the  timbre  of  the  oboe,  but  fainter,  frailer.  A 
twang  of  softly-plucked  strings  supported  its  wild  and  pathetic 
utterance,  and  presently  the  almost  stifled  throb  of  a  little  tom- 
tom that  must  have  been  placed  at  a  distance.  It  was  like  a 
beating  heart. 

The  Count  and  his  guests  sat  listening  in  silence.  Domini 
began  to  feel  curiously  expectant,  yet  she  did  not  recognise  the 


THE  GARDEN  181 

odd  melody.  Her  sensation  was  that  some  other  music  must  be 
coming  which  she  had  heard  before,  which  had  moved  her  deeply 
at  some  time  in  her  life.  She  glanced  at  the  Count  and  found 
him  looking  at  her  with  a  whimsical  expression,  as  if  he  were  a 
kind  conspirator  whose  plot  would  soon  be  known. 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

He  bent  towards  her. 

"  Wait !  "  he  whispered.     "  Listen !  " 

She  saw  Androvsky  frown.  His  face  was  distorted  by  an 
expression  of  pain,  and  she  wondered  if  he,  like  some  Europeans, 
found  the  barbarity  of  the  desert  music  ugly  and  even  distressing 
to  the  nerves.  While  she  wondered  a  voice  began  to  sing,  always 
accompanied  by  the  four  instruments.  It  was  a  contralto  voice, 
but  sounded  like  a  youth's. 

"  What  is  that  song?  "  she  asked  under  her  breath.  "  Surely 
I  must  have  heard  it!  " 

"You  don't  know?" 

"Wait!" 

She  searched  her  heart.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  knew  the 
song.  At  some  period  of  her  life  she  had  certainly  been  deeply 
moved  by  it — but  when?  where?  The  voice  died  away,  and 
was  succeeded  by  a  soft  chorus  singing  monotonously: 

"Wurra-Wurra." 

Then  it  rose  once  more  in  a  dreamy  and  reticent  refrain,  like 
the  voice  of  a  soul  communing  with  itself  in  the  desert,  above  the 
instruments  and  the  murmuring  chorus. 

"  You  remember?  "  whispered  the  Count. 

She  moved  her  head  in  assent  but  did  not  speak.     She  coulf** 
not  speak.     It  was  the  song  the  Arab  had  sung  as  he  turned  int 
the  shadow  of  the  palm  trees,  the  song  of  the  freed  negroes  -n* 

Touggourt ; 

ved 

"  No  one  but  God  and  I 
Knows  what  is  in  my  heart."  ore. 

The  priest  leaned  back  in  his  chair.     His  dark  eyes  were  c  do 
down,  and  his  thin,  sun-browned  hands  were  folded  togethe. 
a  way  that  suggested  prayer.     Did  this  desert  song  of  the  bl-ard 
men,  children  of  God  like  him  as  their  song  affirmed,  stir 
soul  to  some  grave  petition  that  embraced  the  wants  of  me 
humanity  ? 

Androvsky  was  sitting  quite  still.     He  was  also  looking  dov 


1  82  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

and  the  lids  covered  his  eyes.  An  expression  of  pain  still 
lingered  on  his  face,  but  it  was  less  cruel,  no  longer  tortured, 
but  melancholy.  And  Domini,  as  she  listened,  recalled  the 
strange  cry  that  had  risen  within  her  as  the  Arab  disappeared 
in  the  sunshine,  the  cry  of  the  soul  in  life  surrounded  by 
mysteries,  by  the  hands,  the  footfalls,  the  voices  '  of  hidden 
things  —  "  What  is  going  to  happen  to  me  here?  "  But  that  cry 
had  risen  in  her,  found  words  in  her,  only  when  confronted  by 
the  desert.  Before  it  had  been  perhaps  hidden  in  the  womb. 
Only  then  was  it  born.  And  now  the  days  had  passed  and  the 
nights,  and  the  song  brought  with  it  the  cry  once  more,  the  cry 
and  suddenly  something  else,  another  voice  that,  very  far  away, 
seemed  to  be  making  answer  to  it.  That  answer  she  could  not 
hear.  The  words  of  it  were  hidden  in  the  womb  as,  once,  the 
words  of  her  intense  question.  Only  she  felt  that  an  answer 
had  been  made.  The  future  knew,  and  had  begun  to  try  to  tell 
her.  She  was  on  the  very  edge  of  knowledge  while  she  listened, 
but  she  could  not  step  into  the  marvellous  land. 
Presently  Count  Anteoni  spoke  to  the  priest. 
"  You  have  heard  this  song,  no  doubt,  Father?  " 
Father  Roubier  shook  his  head. 

"  I  don't  think  so,  but  I  can  never  remember  the  Arab 
music." 

"  Perhaps  you  dislike  it?  " 

"  No,  no.  It  is  ugly  in  a  way,  but  there  seems  a  great  deal 
of  meaning  in  it.  In  this  song  especially  there  is  —  one  might 
almost  call  it  beauty." 

"  Wonderful  beauty,"  Domini  said  in  a  low  voice,  still  listen- 
i  ing  to  the  song. 

di    "  The  words  are  beautiful,"  said  the  Count,  this  time  address- 
anig  himself  to  Androvsky.     "  I  don't  know  them  all,  but  they 
bai>gm  like  this: 
and 

benc  "'The  gazelle  dies  in  the  water, 

of  n  The  fish  dies  in  the  air, 

stole  And  I  die  in  the  dunes  of  the  desert  sand 

For  my  love  that  is  deep  and  sad.' 


when  the  chorus  sounds,  as  now  "  —  and  he  made  a  gesture 
/ard  the  inner  room,  in  which  the  low  murmur  of  "  Wurra- 
urra  "  rose  again  —  "  the  singer  reiterates  always  the  same 


i-eg  «  *  No  one  but  God  and  I 

Knows  what  is  in  mjr  heart.'  " 


THE  GARDEN  183 

Almost  as  he  spoke  the  contralto  voice  began  to  sing  the 
refrain.  Androvsky  turned  pale.  There  were  drops  of  sweat 
on  his  forehead.  He  lifted  his  glass  of  wine  to  his  lips  and  his 
hand  trembled  so  that  some  of  the  wine  was  spilt  upon  the  table- 
cloth. And,  as  once  before,  Domini  felt  that  what  moved  her 
deeply  moved  him  even  more  deeply,  whether  in  the  same  way 
or  differently  she  could  not  tell.  The  image  of  the  taper  and 
the  torch  recurred  to  her  mind.  She  saw  Androvsky  with  fire 
round  about  him.  The  violence  of  this  man  surely  resembled 
the  violence  of  Africa.  There  was  something  terrible  about  it, 
yet  also  something  noble,  for  it  suggested  a  male  power,  which 
might  make  for  either  good  or  evil,  but  which  had  nothing  to  do 
with  littleness.  For  a  moment  Count  Anteoni  and  the  priest 
were  dwarfed,  as  if  they  had  come  into  the  presence  of  a 
giant. 

The  Arabs  handed  round  fruit.  And  now  the  song  died 
softly  away.  Only  the  instruments  went  on  playing.  The 
distant  tom-tom  was  surely  the  beating  of  that  heart  into  whose 
mysteries  no  other  human  heart  could  look.  Its  reiterated  and 
dim  throbbing  affected  Domini  almost  terribly.  She  was  re- 
lieved, yet  regretful,  when  at  length  it  ceased. 

"  Shall  we  go  into  the  ante-room?  "  the  Count  said.  "  Coffee 
will  be  brought  there." 

"  Oh,  but — don't  let  us  see  them !  "  Domini  exclaimed. 

"  The  musicians  ?  " 

She  nodded. 

"  You  would  rather  not  hear  any  more  music?  " 

"If  you  don't  mind!" 

He  gave  an  order  in  Arabic.  One  of  the  servants  slipped 
away  and  returned  almost  immediately. 

"  Now  we  can  go,"  the  Count  said.  "  They  have  van- 
ished." 

The  priest  sighed.  It  was  evident  that  the  music  had  moved 
him  too.  As  they  got  up  he  said: 

"  Yes,  there  was  beauty  in  that  song  and  something  more. 
Some  of  these  desert  poets  can  teach  us  to  think." 

"  A  dangerous  lesson,  perhaps,"  said  the  Count.  "  What  do 
you  say,  Monsieur  Androvsky  ?  " 

Androvsky  was  on  his  feet.  His  eyes  were  turned  toward 
the  door  through  which  the  sound  of  the  music  had  come. 

"  I !  "  he  answered.  "  I — Monsieur,  I  am  afraid  that  to  me 
this  music  means  very  little.  I  cannot  judge  of  it." 

"  But  the  words?  "  asked  the  Count  with  a  certain  pressure. 


i84  THE  GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  They  do  not  seem  to  me  to  suggest  much  more  than  the 
music." 

The  Count  said  no  more.  As  she  went  into  the  outer  room 
Domini  felt  angry,  as  she  had  felt  angry  in  the  garden  at  Sidi- 
Zerzour  when  Androvsky  said : 

"  These  native  women  do  not  interest  me.  I  see  nothing 
attractive  in  them." 

For  now,  as  then,  she  knew  that  he  had  lied. 

CHAPTER   XI 

DOMINI  came  into  the  ante-room  alone.  The  three  men  had 
paused  for  a  moment  behind  her,  and  the  sound  of  a  match 
struck  reached  her  ears  as  she  went  listlessly  forward  to  the  door 
which  was  open  to  the  broad  garden  path,  and  stood  looking 
out  into  the  sunshine.  Butterflies  were  flitting  here  and  there 
through  the  riot  of  gold,  and  she  heard  faint  ^bird-notes  from  the 
shadows  of  the  trees,  echoed  by  the  more  distant  twitter  of 
Larbi's  flute.  On  the  left,  between  the  palms,  she  caught 
glimpses  of  the  desert  and  of  the -hard  and  brilliant  mountains, 
and,  as  she  stood  there,  she  remembered  her  sensations  on  first 
entering  the  garden  and  how  soon  she  had  learned  to  love  it.  It 
had  always  seemed  to  her  a  sunny  paradise  of  peace  until  this 
moment.  But  now  she  felt  as  if  she  were  compassed  about  by 
clouds. 

The  vagrant  movement  of  the  butterflies  irritated  her 
eyes,  the  distant  sound  of  the  flute  distressed  her  ears,  and  all 
the  peace  had  gone.  Once  again  this  man  destroyed  the  spell 
Nature  had  cast  upon  her.  Because  she  knew  that  he  had  lied, 
her  joy  in  the  garden,  her  deeper  joy  in  the  desert  that  embraced 
it,  were  stricken.  Yet  why  should  he  not  lie?  Which  of  us 
does  not  lie  about  his  feelings?  Has  reserve  no  right  to 
armour  ? 

She  heard  her  companions  entering  the  room  and  turned 
round.  At  that  moment  her  heart  was  swept  by  an  emotion 
almost  of  hatred  to  Androvsky.  Because  of  it  she  smiled.  A 
forced  gaiety  dawned  in  her.  She  sat  down  on  one  of  the  low 
divans,  and,  as  she  asked  Count  Anteoni  for  a  cigarette  and  lit 
it,  she  thought,  "  How  shall  I  punish  him?  "  That  lie,  not  even 
told  to  her  and  about  so  slight  a  matter,  seemed  to  her  an  attack 
which  she  resented  and  must  return.  Not  for  a  moment  did  she 
ask  herself  if  she  were  reasonable.  A  voice  within  her  said,  "  I 


THE  GARDEN  185 

will  not  be  lied  to,  I  will  not  even  bear  a  lie  told  to  another  in 
my  presence  by  this  man."  And  the  voice  was  imperious. 

Count  Anteoni  remained  beside  her,  smoking  a  cigar. 
Father  Roubier  took  a  seat  by  the  little  table  in  front  of  her. 
But  Androvsky  went  over  to  the  door  she  had  just  left,  and 
stood,  as  she  had,  looking  out  into  the  sunshine.  Bous-Bous 
followed  him,  and  snuffed  affectionately  round  his  feet,  trying  to 
gain  his  attention. 

"  My  little  dog  seems  very  fond  of  your  friend,"  the  priest 
said  to  Domini. 

"  My  friend!" 

"  Monsieur  Androvsky." 

She  lowered  her  voice. 

"  He  is  only  a  travelling  acquaintance.  I  know  nothing  of 
him." 

The  priest  looked  gently  surprised  and  Count  Anteoni  blew 
forth  a  fragrant  cloud  of  smoke. 

"  He  seems  a  remarkable  man,"  the  priest  said  mildly. 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

She  began  to  speak  to  Count  Anteoni  about  some  absurdity 
of  Batouch,  forcing  her  mind  into  a  light  and  frivolous  mood, 
and  he  echoed  her  tone  with  a  clever  obedience  for  which 
secretly  she  blessed  him.  In  a  moment  they  were  laughing 
together  with  apparent  merriment,  and  Father  Roubier  smiled 
innocently  at  their  light-heartedness,  believing  in  it  sincerely. 
But  Androvsky  suddenly  turned  around  with  a  dark  and  morose 
countenance. 

"  Come  in  out  of  the  sunshine,"  said  the  Count.  "  It  is  too 
strong.  Try  this  chair.  Coffee  will  be — ah,  here  it  is !  " 

Two  servants  appeared,  carrying  it. 

"  Thank  you,  Monsieur,"  Androvsky  said  with  reluctant 
courtesy. 

He  came  towards  them  with  determination  and  sat  down, 
drawing  forward  his  chair  till  he  was  facing  Domini.  Directly 
he  was  quiet  Bous-Bous  sprang  upon  his  knee  and  lay  down 
hastily,  blinking  his  eyes,  which  were  almost  concealed  by  hair, 
and  heaving  a  sigh  which  made  the  priest  look  kindly  at  him, 
even  while  he  said  deprecatingly : 

"Bous-Bous!  Bous-Bous!  Little  rascal,  little  pig — down, 
down!" 

"Oh,  leave  him,  Monsieur!"  muttered  Androvsky.  "It's 
all  the  same  to  me." 

"  He  really  has  no  shame  where  his  heart  is  concerned." 


186  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  Arab !  "  said  the  Count.  "  He  has  learnt  it  in  Beni- 
Mora." 

"  Perhaps  he  has  taken  lessons  from  Larbi,"  said  Domini. 
"  Hark !  He  is  playing  to-day.  For  whom  ?  " 

"  I  never  ask  now,"  said  the  Count.  "  The  name  changes  so 
often." 

."  Constancy  is  not  an  Arab  fault?  "  Domini  asked. 

"  You  say  '  fault,'  Madame,"  interposed  the  priest. 

"  Yes,  Father,"  she  returned  with  a  light  touch  of  conscious 
cynicism.  "Surely  in  this  world  that  which 'is  apt  to  bring 
inevitable  misery  with  it  must  be  accounted  a  fault." 

"  But  can  constancy  do  that  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  think  so,  into  a  world  of  ceaseless  change?  " 

"  Then  how  shall  we  reckon  truth  in  a  world  of  lies?  "  asked 
the  Count.  "  Is  that  a  fault,  too  ?  " 

"  Ask  Monsieur  Androvsky,"  said  Domini,  quickly. 

"  I  obey,"  said  the  Count,  looking  over  at  his  guest. 

"Ah,  but  I.  am  sure  I  know,"  Domini  added.  "  I  am  sure 
you  think  truth  a  thing  we  should  all  avoid  in  such  a  world  as 
this.  Don't  you,  Monsieur?  " 

"If  you  are  sure,  Madame,  why  ask  me?"  Androvsky 
replied. 

There  was  in  his  voice  a  sound  that  was  startling.  Suddenly 
the  priest  reached  out  his  hand  and  lifted  Bous-Bous  on  to  his 
knee,  and  Count  Anteoni  very  lightly  and  indifferently  inter- 
posed. 

"  Truth-telling  among  Arabs  becomes  a  dire  necessity  to 
Europeans.  One  cannot  out-lie  them,  and  it  doesn't  pay  to  run 
second  to  Orientals.  So  one  learns,  with  tears,  to  be  sincere. 
Father  Roubier  is  shocked  by  my  apologia  for  my  own  blatant 
truthfulness." 

The  priest  laughed. 

"  I  live  so  little  in  what  is  called  '  the  world  '  that  I'm  afraid 
I'm  very  ready  to  take  drollery  for  a  serious  expression  of 
opinion." 

He  stroked  Bous-Bous's  white  back,  and  added,  with  a  simple 
geniality  that  seemed  to  spring  rather  from  a  desire  to  be  kind 
than  from  any  temperamental  source: 

"  But  I  hope  I  shall  always  be  able  to  enjoy  innocent  fun." 

As  he  spoke  his  eyes  rested  on  Androvsky's  face,  and  suddenly 
he  looked  grave  and  put  Bous-Bous  gently  down  on  the  floor. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  must  be  going,"  he  said. 

"Already?  "said  his  host. 


THE  GARDEN  187 

"  I  dare  not  allow  myself  too  much  idleness.  If  once  I  began 
to  be  idle  in  this  climate  I  should  become  like  an  Arab  and  do 
nothing  all  day  but  sit  in  the  sun." 

"  As  I  do.  Father,  we  meet  very  seldom,  but  whenever  we 
do  I  feel  myself  a  cumberer  of  the  earth." 

Domini  had  never  before  heard  him  speak  with  such  humble- 
ness. The  priest  flushed  like  a  boy. 

"  We  each  serve  in  our  own  way,"  he  said  quickly.  "  The 
Arab  who  sits  all  day  in  the  sun  may  be  heard  as  a  song  of  praise 
where  He  is." 

And  then  he  took  his  leave.  This  time  he  did  not  extend  his 
hand  to  Androvsky,  but  only  bowed  to  him,  lifting  his  white 
helmet.  As  he  went  away  in  the  sun  with  Bous-Bous  the  three 
he  had  left  followed  him  with  their  eyes.  For  Androvsky  had 
turned  his  chair  sideways,  as  if  involuntarily. 

"  I  shall  learn  to  love  Father  Roubier,"  Domini  said. 

Androvsky  moved  his  seat  round  again  till  his  back  was  to 
the  garden,  and  placed  his  broad  hands  palm  downward  on  his 
knees. 

"Yes?  "said  the  Count. 

"  He  is  so  transparently  good,  and  he  bears  his  great  dis- 
appointment so  beautifully." 

"What  great  disappointment?" 

"  He  longed  to  become  a  monk." 

Androvsky  got  up  from  his  seat  and  walked  back  to  the 
garden  doorway.  His  restless  demeanour  and  lowering  expres- 
sion destroyed  all  sense  of  calm  and  leisure.  Count  Anteoni 
looked  after  him,  and  then  at  Domini,  with  a  sort  of  playful 
surprise.  He  was  going  to  speak,  but  before  the  words  came 
Smam  appeared,  carrying  reverently  a  large  envelope  covered 
with  Arab  writing. 

"  Will  you  excuse  me  for  a  moment  ?  "  the  Count  said. 

"  Of  course." 

He  took  the  letter,  and  at  once  a  vivid  expression  of  excite- 
ment shone  in  his  eyes.  When  he  had  read  it  there  was  a  glow 
upon  his  face  as  if  the  flames  of  a  fire  played  over  it. 

"  Miss  Enfilden,"  he  said,  "  will  you  think  me  very  dis- 
courteous if  I  .leave  you  for  a  moment?  The  messenger  who 
brought  this  has  come  from  far  and  starts  to-day  on  his  return 
journey.  He  has  come  out  of  the  south,  three  hundred  kilo- 
metres away,  from  Beni-Hassan,  a  sacred  village — a  sacred 
village." 

He  repeated  the  last  words,  lowering  his  voice. 


1 88  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  Of  course  go  and  see  him." 

"And  you?" 

He  glanced  towards  Androvsky,  who  was  standing  with  his 
back  to  them. 

"  Won't  you  show  Monsieur  Androvsky  the  garden?  " 

Hearing  his  name  Androvsky  turned,  and  the  Count  at  once 
made  his  excuses  to  him  and  followed  Sma'in  towards  the  garden 
gate,  carrying  the  letter  that  had  come  f-rom  Beni-Hassan  in  his 
hand. 

When  he  had  gone  Domini  remained  on  the  divan,  and 
Androvsky  by  the  door,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  She  took 
another  cigarette  from  the  box  on  the  table  beside  her,  struck  a 
match  and  lit  it  carefully.  Then  she  said: 

"  Do  you  care  to  see  the  garden  ?  " 

She  spoke  indifferently,  coldly.  The  desire  to  show  her 
Paradise  to  him  had  died  away,  but  the  parting  words  of  the 
Count  prompted  the  question,  and  so  she  put  it  as  to  a 
stranger. 

"  Thank  you,  Madame — yes,"  he  replied,  as  if  with  an  effort. 

She  got  up,  and  they  went  out  together  on  to  the  broad 
walk. 

"  Which  way  do  you  want  to  go  ?  "  she  asked. 

She  saw  him  glance  at  her  quickly,  with  anxiety  in  his  eyes. 

"  You  know  best  where  we  should  go,  Madame." 

"I  daresay  you  won't  care  about  it.  Probably  you  are  not 
interested  in  gardens.  It  does  not  matter  really  which  path  we 
take.  They  are  all  very  much  alike." 

"  I  am  sure  they  are  all  very  beautiful." 

Suddenly  he  had  become  humble,  anxious  to  please  her. 
But  now  the  violent  contrasts  in  him,  unlike  the  violent  con- 
trasts of  nature  in  this  land,  exasperated  her.  She  longed  to  be 
left  alone.  She  felt  ashamed  of  Androvsky,  and  also  of  herself ; 
she  condemned  herself  bitterly  for  the  interest  she  had  taken  in 
him,  for  her  desire  to  put  some  pleasure  into  a  life  she  had 
deemed  sad,  for  her  curiosity  about  him,  for  her  wish  to  share 
joy  with  him.  She  laughed  at  herself  secretly  for  what  she  now 
called  her  folly  in  having  connected  him  imaginatively  with  the 
desert,  whereas  in  reality  he  made  the  desert,  as  everything  he 
approached,  lose  in  beauty  and  wonder.  His  was  a  destructive 
personality.  She  knew  it  now.  Why  had  she  not  realised  it 
before?  He  was  a  man  to  put  gall  in  the  cup  of  pleasure,  to 
create  uneasiness,  self-consciousness,  constraint  round  about  him, 
to  call  up  spectres  at  the  banquet  of  life.  Well,  in  the  future  she 


THE  GARDEN  189 

could  avoid  him.  After  to-day  she  need  never  have  any  more 
intercourse  with  him.  With  that  thought,  that  interior  sense  of 
her  perfect  freedom  in  regard  to  this  man,  an  abrupt,  but  always 
cold,  content  came  to  her,  putting  him  a  long  way  off  where 
surely  all  that  he  thought  and  did  was  entirely  indifferent  to  her. 

"  Come  along  then,"  she  said.     "  We'll  go  this  way." 

And  she  turned  down  an  alley  which  led  towards  the  home  of 
the  purple  dog.  She  did  not  know  at  the  moment  that  anything 
had  influenced  her  to  choose  that  particular  path,  but  very  soon 
the  sound  of  Larbi's  flute  grew  louder,  and  she  guessed  that  in 
reality  the  music  had  attracted  her.  Androvsky  walked  beside 
her  without  a  word.  She  felt  that  he  was  not  looking  about  him, 
not  noticing  anything,  and  all  at  once  she  stopped  decisively. 

"Why  should  we  take  all  this  trouble?"  she  said  bluntly. 
"  I  hate  pretence  and  I  thought  I  had  travelled  far  away  from  it. 
But  we  are  both  pretending." 

"  Pretending,  Madame?  "  he  said  in  a  startled  voice. 

"  Yes.  I  that  I  want  to  show  you  this  garden,  you  that  you 
want  to  see  it.  I  no  longer  wish  to  show  it  to  you,  and  you  have 
never  wished  to  see  it.  Let  us  cease  to  pretend.  It  is  all 
my  fault.  I  bothered  you  to  come  here  when  you  didn't  want 
to  come.  You  have  taught  me  a  lesson.  I  was  inclined  to  con- 
demn you  for  it,  to  be  angry  with  you.  But  why  should  I  be? 
You  were  quite  right.  Freedom  is  my  fetish.  I  set  you  free, 
Monsieur  Androvsky.  Good-bye." 

As  she  spoke  she  felt  that  the  air  was  clearing,  the  clouds 
were  flying.  Constraint  at  least  was  at  an  end.  And  she  had 
really  the  sensation  of  setting  a  captive  at  liberty.  She  turned  to 
leave  him,  but  he  said: 

"  Please,  stop,  Madame." 

"Why?" 

"  You  have  made  a  mistake." 

"In  what?" 

"  I  do  want  to  see  this  garden."  • 

"  Really  ?     Well,  then,  you  can  wander  through  it." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  see  it  alone." 

"  Larbi  shall  guide  you.  For  half  a  franc  he  will  gladly  give 
up  his  serenading." 

"  Madame,  if  you  will  not  show  me  the  garden  I  will  not  see 
it  at  all.  I  will  go  now  and  will  never  come  into  it  again.  I  do 
not  pretend." 

"Ah!"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  quite  changed.  "But 
you  do  worse." 


190  THE  GARDEN   OF  ALLAH! 

"Worse!" 

"  Yes.     You  lie  in  the  face  of  Africa." 

She  did  not  wish  or  mean  to  say  it,  and  yet  she  had  to  say 
it.  She  knew  it  was  monstrous  that  she  should  speak  thus  to 
him.  What  had  his  lies  to  do  with  her?  She  had  been  told  a 
thousand,  had  heard  a  thousand  told  to  others.  Her  life  had 
been  passed  in  a  world  of  which  the  words  of  the  Psalmist, 
though  uttered  in  haste,  are  a  clear-cut  description.  And  she 
had  not  thought  she  cared.  Yet  really  she  must  have  cared. 
For,  in  leaving  this  world,  her  soul  had,  as  it  were,  fetched  a 
long  breath.  And  now,  at  the  hint  of  a  lie,  it  instinctively 
recoiled  as  from  a  gust  of  air  laden  with  some  poisonous  and 
suffocating  vapour. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  added.  "  I  am  a  fool.  Out  here  I  do 
love  truth." 

Androvsky  dropped  his  eyes.  His  whole  body  expressed 
humiliation,  and  something  that  suggested  to  her  despair. 

"  Oh,  you  must  think  me  mad  to  speak  like  this !  "  she  ex- 
claimed. "  Of  course  people  must  be  allowed  to  arm  themselves 
against  the  curiosity  of  others.  I  know  that.  The  fact  is  I  am 
under  a  spell  here.  I  have  been  living  for  many,  many  years  in 
the  cold.  I  have  been  like  a  woman  in  a  prison  without  any 
light,  and " 

"  You  have  been  in  a  prison!  "  he  said,  lifting  his  head  anc* 
looking  at  her  eagerly. 

"  I  have  been  living  in  what  is  called  the  great  world." 

"  And  you  call  that  a  prison  ?  " 

"  Now  that  I  am  living  in  the  greater  world,  really  living  at 
last.  I  have  been  in  the  heart  of  insincerity,  and  now  I  have 
come  into  the  heart,  the  fiery  heart  of  sincerity.  It's  there — • 
there  " — she  pointed  to  the  desert.  "  And  it  has  intoxicated  me; 
I  think  it  has  made  me  unreasonable.  I  expect  everyone — not 
an  Arab — to  be  as  it  is,  and  every  little  thing  that  isn't  quite 
ijank,  every  pretence,  is  like  a  horrible  little  hand  tugging  at  me, 
as  if  trying  to  take  me  back  to  the  prison  I  have  left.  I  think, 
deep  down,  I  have  always  loathed  lies,  but  never  as  I  have 
loathed  them  since  I  came  here.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  only  in 
the  desert  there  is  freedom  for  the  body,  and  only  in  truth  there 
is  freedom  for  the  soul." 

She  stopped,  drew  a  long  breath,  and  added: 

"  You  must  forgive  me.  I  have  worried  you.  I  have  made 
you  do  what  you  didn't  want  to  do.  And  then  I  have  attacked 
you.  It  is  unpardonable." 


THE  GARDEN  191 

"  Show  me  the  garden,  Madame,"  he  said  in  a  very  low 
voice. 

Her  outburst  over,  she  felt  a  slight  self -consciousness.  She 
wondered  what  he  thought  of  her  and  became  aware  of  her 
unconventionality.  His  curious  and  persistent  reticence  made 
her  frankness  the  more  marked.  Yet  the  painful  sensation  of 
oppression  and  exasperation  had  passed  away  from  her  and  she 
no  longer  thought  of  his  personality  as  destructive.  In  obedi- 
ence to  his  last  words  she  walked  on,  and  he  kept  heavily  beside 
her,  till  they  were  in  the  deep  shadows  of  the  closely-growing 
trees  and  the  spell  of  the  garden  began  to  return  upon  her, 
banishing  the  thought  of  self. 

"  Listen !  "  she  said  presently. 

Larbi's  flute  was  very  near. 

"  He  is  always  playing,"  she  whispered. 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  One  of  the  gardeners.  But  he  scarcely  ever  works.  He  is 
perpetually  in  love.  That  is  why  he  plays." 

"  Is  that  a  love-tune  then  ?  "  Androvsky  asked. 

"  Yes.     Do  you  think  it  sounds  like  one?  " 

"  How  should  I  know,  Madame  ?  " 

He  stood  looking  in  the  direction  from  which  the  music 
came,  and  now  it  seemed  to  hold  him  fascinated.  After  his 
question,  which  sounded  to  her  almost  childlike,  and  which  she 
did  not  answer,  Domini  glanced  at  his  attentive  face,  to  which 
the  green  shadows  lent  a  dimness  that  was  mysterious,  at  his  tall 
figure,  which  always  suggested  to  her  both  weariness  and 
strength,  and  remembered  the  passionate  romance  to  whose 
existence  she  awoke  when  she  first  heard  Larbi's  flute.  It  was  as 
if  a  shutter,  which  had  closed  a  window  in  the  house  of  life,  had 
been  suddenly  drawn  away,  giving  to  her  eyes  the  horizon  of  a 
new  world.  Was  that  shutter  now  drawn  back  for  him  ?  No 
doubt  the  supposition  was  absurd.  Men  of  his  emotional  and 
virile  type  have  travelled  far  in  that  world,  to  her  mysterious, 
ere  they  reach  his  length  of  years.  What  was  extraordinary 
to  her,  in  the  thought  of  it  alone,  was  doubtless  quite  ordinary 
to  him,  translated  into  act.  Not  ignorant,  she  was  nevertheless 
a  perfectly  innocent  woman,  but  her  knowledge  told  her  that 
no  man  of  Androvsky's  strength,  power  and  passion  is  innocent 
at  Androvsky's  age.  Yet  his  last  dropped-out  question  was  very 
deceptive.  It  had  sounded  absolutely  natural  and  might  have 
come  from  a  boy's  pure  lips.  Again  he  made  her  wonder. 

There  was  a  garden  bench  close  to  where  they  were  standing. 


192  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  If  you  like  to  listen  for  a  moment  we  might  sit  down," 
she  said. 

He  started. 

"  Yes.     Thank  you." 

When  they  were  sitting  side  by  side,  closely  guarded  by  the 
gigantic  fig  and  chestnut  trees  which  grew  in  this  part  of  the 
garden,  he  added: 

"Whom  does  he  love?" 

"  No  doubt  one  of  those  native  women  whom  you  consider 
utterly  without  attraction,"  she  answered  with  a  faint  touch  of 
malice  which  made  him  redden. 

"  But  you  come  here  every  day?  "  he  said. 

"I!" 

"  Yes.     Has  he  ever  seen  you  ?  " 

"  Larbi ?     Often.     What  has  that  to  do  with  it?  " 

He  did  not  reply. 

Odd  and  disconnected  as  Larbi's  melodies  were,  they  created 
an  atmosphere  of  wild  tenderness.  Spontaneously  they  bubbled 
up  out  of  the  heart  of  the  Eastern  world  and,  when  the  player 
was  invisible  as  now,  suggested  an  ebon  faun  couched  in  hot 
sand  at  the  foot  of  a  palm  tree  and  making  music  to  listening 
sunbeams  and  amorous  spirits  of  the  waste. 

"  Do  you  like  it?  "  she  said  presently  in  an  under  voice. 

"Yes,  Madame.     And  you?" 

"  I  love  it,  but  not  as  I  love  the  song  of  the  freed  negroes. 
That  is  a  song  of  all  the  secrets  of  humanity  and  of  the  desert 
too.  And  it  does  not  try  to  tell  them.  It  only  says  that  they 
exist  and  that  God  knows  them.  But,  I  remember,  you  do  not 
like  that  song." 

"  Madame,"  he  answered  slowly,  and  as  if  he  were  choosing 
his  words,  "  I  see  that  you  understood.  The  song  did  move  me 
though  I  said  not.  But  no,  I  do  not  like  it." 

"  Do  you  care  to  tell  me  why  ?  " 

"  Such  a  song  as  that  seems  to  me  an — it  is  like  an  intrusion. 
There  are  things  that  should  be  let  alone.  There  are  dark  places 
that  should  be  left  dark." 

"  You  mean  that  all  human  beings  hold  within  them  secrets, 
and  that  no  allusion  even  should  ever  be  made  to  those  secrets  r  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  understand." 

After  a  pause  he  said,  anxiously,  she  thought: 

"  Am  I  right,  Madame,  or  is  my  thought  ridiculous  ?  " 

He  asked  it  so  simply  that  she  felt  touched. 


THE  GARDEN  193 

"  I'm  sure  you  could  never  be  ridiculous,"  she  said  quickly. 
"  And  perhaps  you  are  right.  I  don't  know.  That  song  makes 
me  think  and  feel,  and  so  I  love  it.  Perhaps  if  you  heard  it 
alone " 

"  Then  I  should  hate  it,"  he  interposed. 

His  voice  was  like  an  uncontrolled  inner  voice  speaking. 

"  And  not  thought  and  feeling "  she  began. 

But  he  interrupted  her. 

"  They  make  all  the  misery  that  exists  in  the  world." 

"  And  all  the  happiness." 

"Do  they?" 

"  They  must." 

"  Then  you  want  to  think  deeply,  to  feel  deeply  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  would  rather  be  the  central  figure  of  a  world- 
tragedy  than  die  without  having  felt  to  the  uttermost,  even  if  it 
were  sorrow.  My  whole  nature  revolts  against  the  idea  of 
being  able  to  feel  little  or  nothing  really.  It  seems  to  me  that 
when  we  begin  to  feel  acutely  we  begin  to  grow,  like  the  palm 
tree  rising  towards  the  African  sun." 

"  I  do  not  think  you  have  ever  been  very  unhappy,"  he  said. 

The  sound  of  his  voice  as  he  said  it  made  her  suddenly  feel 
as  if  it  were  true,  as  if  she  had  never  been  utterly  unhappy.  Yet 
she  had  never  been  really  happy.  Africa  had  taught  her  that. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  she  answered.     "  But — some  day " 

She  stopped. 

"Yes,  Madame?" 

"  Could  one  stay  long  in  such  a  world  as  this  and  not  be 
either  intensely  happy  or  intensely  unhappy?  I  don't  feel  as  if 
it  would  be  possible.  Fierceness  and  fire  beat  upon  one  day 
after  day  and — one  must  learn  to  feel  here." 

As  she  spoke  a  sensation  of  doubt,  almost  of  apprehension, 
came  to  her.  She  was  overtaken  by  a  terror  of  the  desert.  For 
a  moment  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  right,  that  it  were  better 
never  to  be  the  prey  of  any  deep  emotion. 

"If  one  does  not  wish  to  feel  one  should  never  come  to  such 
a  place  as  this,"  she  added. 

And  she  longed  to  ask  him  why  he  was  here,  he,  a  man  whose 
philosophy  told  him  to  avoid  the  heights  and  depths,  to  shun  the 
ardours  of  nature  and  of  life. 

"  Or,  having  come,  one  should  leave  it." 

A  sensation  of  lurking  danger  increased  upon  her,  bringing 
with  it  the  thought  of  flight. 

"  One  can  always  do  that,"  she  said,  looking  at  him. 


194  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

She  saw  fear  in  his  eyes,  but  it  seemed  to  her  that  it  was  not 
fear  of  peril,  but  fear  of  flight.  So  strongly  was  this  idea  borne 
in  upon  her  that  she  bluntly  exclaimed: 

"  Unless  it  is  one's  nature  to  face  things,  never  to  turn  one's 
back.  Is  it  yours,  Monsieur  Androvsky?" 

"  Fear  could  never  drive  me  to  leave  Beni-Mora,"  he 
answered. 

^Sometimes  I  think  that  the  only  virtue  in  us  is  courage,"  she 
said,  "  that  it  includes  all  the  others.  I  believe  I  could  forgive 
everything  where  I  found  absolute  courage." 

Androvsky's  eyes  were  lit  up  as  if  by  a  flicker  of  inward 
fire. 

"  You  might  create  the  virtue  you  love,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment.  ,  Did  he  mean  that 
she  might  create  it  in  him? 

Perhaps  she  would  have  asked,  or  perhaps  he  would  have  told 
her,  but  at  that  moment  something  happened.  Larbi  stopped 
playing.  In  the  last  few  minutes  they  had  both  forgotten  that 
he  was  playing,  but  when  he  ceased  the  garden  changed.  Some- 
thing was  withdrawn  in  which,  without  knowing  it,  they  had 
been  protecting  themselves,  and  when  the  music  faded  their 
armour  dropped  away  from  them.  With  the  complete  silence 
came  an  altered  atmosphere,  the  tenderness  of  mysticism  instead 
of  the  tenderness  of  a  wild  humanity.  The  love  of  man  seemed 
to  depart  out  of  the  garden  and  another  love  to  enter  it,  as  when 
God  walked  under  the  trees  in  the  cool  of  the  day.  And  they 
sat  quite  still,  as  if  a  common  impulse  muted  their  lips.  In  the 
long  silence  that  followed  Domini  thought  of  her  mirage  of  the 
palm  tree  growing  towards  the  African  sun,  feeling  growing  in 
the  heart  of  a  human  being.  But  was  it  a  worthy,  image  ?  For 
the  palm  tree  rises  high.  It  soars  into  the  air.  But  presently 
it  ceases  to  grow.  There  is  nothing  infinite  in  its  growth.  And 
the  long,  hot  years  pass  away  and  there  it  stands,  never  nearer 
to  the  infinite  gold  of  the  sun.  But  in  the  intense  feeling  of  a 
man  or  woman  is  there  not  infinitude?  Is  there  not  a  move- 
ment that  is  ceaseless  till  death  comes  to  destroy — or  to  trans- 
late? 

That  was  what  she  was  thinking  in  the  silence  of  the  garden. 
And  Androvsky?  He  sat  beside  her  with  his  head  bent,  his 
hands  hanging  between  his  knees,  his  eyes  gazing  before  him  at 
the  ordered  tangle  of  the  great  trees.  His  lips  were  slightly 
parted,  and  on  his  strongly-marked  face  there  was  an  expression 
as  of  emotional  peace,  as  if  the  soul  of  the  man  were  feeling 


THE  GARDEN  195 

deeply  in  calm.  The  restlessness,  the  violence  that  had  made  his 
demeanour  so  embarrassing  during  and  after  the  dejeuner  had 
vanished.  He  was  a  different  man.  And  presently,  noticing  it, 
feeling  his  sensitive  serenity,  Domini  seemed  to  see  the  great 
Mother  at  work  about  this  child  of  hers,  Nature  at  her  tender 
task  of  pacification.  The  shared  silence  became  to  her  like  a 
song  of  thanksgiving,  in  which  all  the  green  things  of  the  garden 
joined.  And  beyond  them  the  desert  lay  listening,  the  Garden 
of  Allah  attentive  to  the  voices  of  man's  garden.  She  could 
hardly  believe  that  but  a  few  minutes  before  she  had  been  full  of 
irritation  and  bitterness,  not  free  even  from  a  touch  of  pride  that 
was  almost  petty.  But  when  she  remembered  that  it  was  so  she 
realised  the  abysses  and  the  heights  of  which  the  heart  is  mingled, 
and  an  intense  desire  came  to  her  to  be  always  upon  the  heights 
of  her  own  heart.  For  there  only  was  the  light  of  happiness. 
Never  could  she  know  joy  if  she  forswore  nobility.  Never 
could  she  be  at  peace  with  the  love  within  her — love  of  some- 
thing that  was  not  self,  of  something  that  seemed  vaguer  than 
God,  as  if  it  had  entered  into  God  and  made  him  Love — unless 
she  mounted  upwards  during  her  little  span  of  life.  Again,  as 
before  in  this  land,  in  the  first  sunset,  on  the  tower,  on  the 
minaret  of  the  mosque  of  Sidi-Zerzour,  Nature  spoke  to  her 
intimate  words  of  inspiration,  laid  upon  her  the  hands  of  heal- 
ing* giving  her  powers  she  surely  had  not  known  or  conceived 
of  till  now.  And  the  passion  that  is  the  chiefest  grace  of  good- 
ness, making  it  the  fire  that  purifies,  as  it  is  the  little  sister  of  the 
poor  that  tends  the  suffering,  the  hungry,  the  groping  beggar- 
world,  stirred  within  her,  like  the  child  not  yet  born,  but  whose 
destiny  is  with  the  angels.  And  she  longed  to  make  some  great 
offering  at  the  altar  on  whose  lowest  step  she  stood,  and  she 
was  filled,  for  the  first  time  consciously,  with  woman's  sacred 
desire  for  sacrifice. 

A  soft  step  on  the  sand  broke  the  silence  and  scattered  her 
aspirations.  Count  Anteoni  was  coming  towards  them  between 
the  trees.  The  light  of  happiness  was  still  upon  his  face  and 
made  him  look  much  younger  than  usual.  His  whole  bearing, 
in  its  elasticity  and  buoyant  courage,  was  full  of  anticipation. 
As  he  came  up  to  them  he  said  to  Domini : 

"  Do  you  remember  chiding  me  ?  " 

"I!"  she  said.     "For  what?" 

Androvsky  sat  up  and  the  expression  of  serenity  passed  away 
from  his  face. 

"  For  never  galloping  away  into  the  sun," 


:96  THE  GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  Oh !— yes,  I  do  remember." 

"  Well,  I  am  going  to  obey  you.  I  am  going  to  make  a 
journey." 

"Into  the  desert?" 

"  Three  hundred  kilometers  on  horseback.  I  start  to-mor- 
row." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  new  interest.  He  saw  it  and 
laughed,  almost  like  a  boy. 

"  Ah,  your  contempt  for  me  is  dying!  " 

"  How  can  you  speak  of  contempt?  " 

"  But  you  were  full  of  it."  He  turned  to  Androvsky.  "  Miss 
Enfilden  thought  I  could  not  sit  a  horse,  Monsieur,  unlike  you. 
Forgive  me  for  saying  that  you  are  almost  more  dare-devil  than 
the  Arabs  themselves.  I  saw  you  the  other  day  set  your  stallion 
at  the  bank  of  the  river  bed.  I  did  not  think  any  horse  could 
have  done  it,  but  you  knew  better." 

"  I  did  not  know  at  all,"  said  Androvsky.  "  I  had  not  ridden 
for  over  twenty  years  until  that  day." 

He  spoke  with  a  blunt  determination  which  made  Domini 
remember  their  recent  conversation  on  truth-telling. 

"  Dio  mio !  "  said  the  Count,  slowly,  and  looking  at  him  with 
undisguised  wonder.  "  You  must  have  a  will  and  a  frame  of 
iron." 

"  I  am  pretty  strong." 

He  spoke  rather  roughly.  Since  the  Count  had  joined  them 
Domini  noticed  that  Androvsky  had  become  a  different  man. 
Once  more  he  was  on  the  defensive.  The  Count  did  not  seem  to 
notice  it.  Perhaps  he  was  too  radiant. 

"  I  hope  I  shall  endure  as  well  as  you,  Monsieur,"  he  said. 
"  I  go  to  Beni-Hassan  to  visit  Sidi  El  Hadj  Aissa,  one  of  the 
mightiest  marabouts  in  the  Sahara.  In  your  Church,"  he 
added,  turning  again  to  Domini,  "he  would  be  a  powerful 
Cardinal." 

She  noticed  the  "  your."  Evidently  the  Count  was  not  a  pro- 
fessing Catholic.  Doubtless,  like  many  modern  Italians,  he  was 
a  free-thinker  in  matters  of  religion. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  never  heard  of  him,"  she  said.  "  In 
which  direction  does  Beni-Hassan  lie?" 

"  To  go  there  one  takes  the  caravan  route  that  the  natives  call 
the  route  to  Tombouctou." 

An  eager  look  came  into  her  face. 

"My  road!  "she  said. 

"Yours?" 


THE  GARDEN  197 

"  The  one  I  shall  travel  on.  You  remember,  Monsieur 
Androvsky?  " 

"  Yes,  Madame." 

"  Let  me  into  your  secret,"  said  the  Count,  laughingly,  yet 
with  interest  too. 

"  It  is  no  secret.  It  is  only  that  I  love  that  route.  It 
fascinates  me,  and  I  mean  some  day  to  make  a  desert  journey 
along  it." 

"  What  a  pity  that  we  cannot  join  forces,"  the  Count  said. 
"  I  should  feel  it  an  honour  to  show  the  desert  to  one  who  has 
the  reverence  for  it,  the  understanding  of  its  spell,  that  you 
have." 

He  spoke  earnestly,  paused,  and  then  added: 

"  But  I  know  well  what  you  are  thinking." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  That  you  will  go  to  the  desert  alone.  You  are  right.  It  is 
the  only  way,  at  any  rate  the  first  time.  I  went  like  that  many 
years  ago." 

She  said  nothing  in  assent,  and  Androvsky  got  up  from  the 
bench. 

"  I  must  go,  Monsieur." 

"  Already !     But  have  you  seen  the  garden  ?  " 

"  It  is  wonderful.     Good-bye,  Monsieur.     Thank  you." 

"  But — let  me  see  you  to  the  gate.    On  Fridays " 

He  was  turning  to  Domini  when  she  got  up  too. 

"  Don't  you  distribute  alms  on  Fridays?  "  she  said. 

"  How  should  you  know  it?  " 

"  I  have   heard  all  about  you.     But  is  this  the  hour?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Let  me  see  the  distribution." 

"  And  we  will  speed  Monsieur  Androvsky  on  his  way  at  the 
same  time." 

She  noticed  that  there  was  no  question  in  his  mind  of  her 
going  with  Androvsky.  Did  she  mean  to  go  with  him  ?  She  had 
not  decided  yet. 

They  walked  towards  the  gate  and  were  soon  on  the  great 
sweep  of  sand  before  the  villa.  A  murmur  of  many  voices  was 
audible  outside  in  the  desert,  nasal  exclamations,  loud  guttural 
cries  that  sounded  angry,  the  twittering  of  flutes  and  the  snarl 
of  camels. 

"  Do  you  hear  my  pensioners?  "  said  the  Count.  "  They  are 
always  impatient." 

There  was  the  noise  of  a  tom-tom  and  of  a  whining  shriek. 


198  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  That  is  old  Bel  Cassem's  announcement  of  his  presence.  He 
has  been  living  on  me  for  years,  the  old  ruffian,  ever  since  his 
right  eye  was  gouged  out  by  his  rival  in  the  affections  of  the 
Marechale  of  the  dancing-girls.  SmaTn !  " 

He  blew  his  silver  whistle.  Instantly  Smain  came  out  of  the 
villa  carrying  a  money-bag.  The  Count  took  it  and  weighed  it 
in  his  hand,  looking  at  Domini  with  the  joyous  expression  still 
upon  his  face. 

"  Have  you  ever  made  a  thank-offering?  "  he  said. 

"  No."  ' 

"  That  tells  me  something.  Well,  to-day  I  wish  to  make  a 
thank-offering  to  the  desert." 

"  What  has  it  done  for  you  ?  " 

"  Who  knows  ?     Who  knows  ?  " 

He  laughed  aloud,  almost  like  a  boy.  Androvsky  glanced  at 
him  with  a  sort  of  wondering  envy. 

"  And  I  want  you  to  share  in  my  little  distribution,"  he  added. 
"  And  you,  Monsieur,  if  you  don't  mind.  There  are  moments 
when — Open  the  gate,  Smam !  " 

His  ardour  was  infectious  and  Domini  felt  stirred  by  it  to  a 
sudden  sense  of  the  joy  of  life.  She  looked  at  Androvsky,  to  in- 
clude him  in  the  rigour  of  gaiety  which  swept  from  the  Count  to 
her,  and  found  him  staring  apprehensively  at  the  Count,  who  was 
now  loosening  the  string  of  the  bag.  Smain  had  reached  the 
gate.  He  lifted  the  bar  of  wood  and  opened  it.  Instantly  a 
crowd  of  dark  faces  and  turbaned  heads  were  thrust  through 
the  tall  aperture,  a  multitude  of  dusky  hands  fluttered  fran- 
tically, and  the  cry  of  eager  voices,  saluting,  begging,  calling 
down  blessings,  relating  troubles,  shrieking  wants,  proclaiming 
virtues  and  necessities,  rose  into  an  almost  deafening  uproar. 
But  not  a  foot  was  lifted  over  the  lintel  to  press  the  sunlit  sand. 
The  Count's  ^pensioners  might  be  clamorous,  but  they  knew 
what  they  might  not  do.  As  he  saw  them  the  wrinkles  in  his 
face  deepened  and  his  fingers  quickened  to  achieve  their  pur- 
pose. 

"  My  pensioners  are  very  hungry  to-day,  and,  as  you  see, 
they  don't  mind  saying  so.  Hark  at  Bel  Cassem!  " 

The  tom-tom  and  the  shriek  that  went  with  it  made  it  a 
fierce  crescendo. 

"  That  means  he  is  starving — the  old  hypocrite!  Aren't  they 
like  the  wolves  in  your  Russia,  Monsieur?  But  we  must 
feed  them.  We  mustn't  let  them  devour  our  Beni-Mora. 
That's  it!" 


THE  GARDEN  199 

He  threw  the  string  on  to  the  sand,  plunged  his  hand  into  the 
bag  and  brought  it  out  full  of  copper  coins.  The  mouths  opened 
wider,  the  hands  waved  more  frantically,  and  all  the  dark  eyes 
gleamed  with  the  light  of  greed. 

"  Will  you  help  me?  "  he  said  to  Domini. 

"Of  course.     What  fun!" 

Her  eyes  were  gleaming  too,  but  with  the  dancing  fires  of  a 
gay  impulse  of  generosity  which  made  her  wish  that  the  bag  con- 
tained her  money.  He  filled  her  hands  with  coins. 

"  Choose  whom  you  will.     And  now,  Monsieur!  " 

For  the  moment  he  was  so  boyishly  concentrated  on  the  im- 
mediate present  that  he  had  ceased  to  observe  whether  the  whim 
of  others  jumped  with  his  own.  Otherwise  he  must  have  been 
struck  by  Androvsky's  marked  discomfort,  which  indeed  almost 
amounted  to  agitation.  The  sight  of  the  throng  of  Arabs  at  the 
gateway,  the  clamour  of  their  voices,  evidently  roused  within  him 
something  akin  to  fear.  He  looked  at  them  with  distaste,  and 
had  drawn  back  several  steps  upon  the  sand,  and  now,  as  the 
Count  held  out  to  him  a  hand  filled  with  money,  he  made  no 
motion  to  take  it,  and  half  turned  as  if  he  thought  of  retreating 
into  the  recesses  of  the  garden. 

"  Here,  Monsieur !  here !  "  exclaimed  the  Count,  with  his  eyes 
on  the  crowd,  towards  which  Domini  was  walking  with  a  sort  of 
mischievous  slowness,  to  whet  those  appetites  already  so  vora- 
cious. 

Androvsky  set  his  teeth  and  took  the  money,  dropping  one  or 
two  pieces  on  the  ground.  For  a  moment  the  Count  seemed 
doubtful  of  his  guest's  participation  in  his  own  lively  mood. 

"  Is  this  boring  you?  "  he  asked.     "  Because  if  so " 

"  No,  no,  Monsieur,  not  at  all !     What  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"  Those  hands  will  tell  you." 

The  clamour  grew  more  exigent. 

"  And  when  you  want  more  come  to  me !  " 

Then  he  called  out  in  Arabic,  "  Gently !  Gently !  "  as  the 
vehement  scuffling  seemed  about  to  degenerate  into  actual  fight- 
ing at  Domini's  approach,  and  hurried  forward,  followed  more 
slowly  by  Androvsky. 

Smai'n,  from  whose  velvety  eyes  the  dreams  were  not  banished 
by  the  uproar,  stood  languidly  by  the  porter's  tent,  gazing  at 
Androvsky.  Something  in  the  demeanour  of  the  new  visitor 
seemed  to  attract  him.  Domini,  meanwhile,  had  reached  the 
gateway.  Gently,  with  a  capricious  deftness  and  all  a  woman's 
passion  for  personal  choice,  she  dropped  the  bits  of  money  into 


200  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

the  hands  belonging  to  the  faces  that  attracted  her,  disregarding 
the  bellowings  of  those  passed  over.  The  light  from  all  these 
gleaming  eyes  made  her  feel  warm,  the  clamour  that  poured 
from  these  brown  throats  excited  her.  When  her  fingers  were 
empty  she  touched  the  Count's  arm  eagerly. 

"  More,  more,  please !  " 

"  Ecco,  Signora." 

He  held  out  to  her  the  bag.  She  plunged  her  hands  into  it 
and  came  nearer  to  the  gate,  both  hands  full  of  money  and  held 
high  above  her  head.  The  Arabs  leapt  up  at  her  like  dogs  at  a 
bone,  and  for  a  moment  she  waited,  laughing  with  all  her  heart. 
Then  she  made  a  movement  to  throw  the  money  over  the  heads 
of  the  near  ones  to  the  unfortunates  who  were  dancing  and 
shrieking  on  the  outskirts  of  the  mob.  But  suddenly  her  hands 
dropped  and  she  uttered  a  startled  exclamation. 

The  sand  diviner  of  the  red  bazaar,  slipping  like  a  reptile 
under  the  waving  arms  and  between  the  furious  bodies  of  the 
beggars,  stood  up  before  her  with  a  smile  on  his  wounded  face, 
stretched  out  to  her  his  emaciated  hands  with  a  fawning,  yet 
half  satirical,  gesture  of  desire. 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE  money  dropped  from  Domini's  fingers  and  rolled  upon 
the  sand  at  the  Diviner's  feet.  But  though  he  had  surely  come 
to  ask  for  alms,  he  took  no  heed  of  it.  While  the  Arabs 
round  him  fell  upon  their  knees  and  fought  like  animals  for  the 
plunder,  he  stood  gaping  at  Domini.  The  smile  still  flickered 
about  his  lips.  His  hand  was  still  stretched  out. 

Instinctively  she  had  moved  backwards.  Something  that  was 
like  a  thrill  of  fear,  mental,  not  physical,  went  through  her,  but 
she  kept  her  eyes  steadily  on  his,  as  if,  despite  the  fear,  she 
fought  against  him. 

The  contest  of  the  beggars  had  become  so  passionate  that 
Count  Anteoni's  commands  were  forgotten.  Urged  by  the 
pressure  from  behind  those  in  the  front  scrambled  or  fell  over 
the  sacred  threshold.  The  garden  was  invaded  by  a  shrieking 
mob.  Smam  ran  forward,  and  the  autocrat  that  dwelt  in  the 
Count  side  by  side  with  the  benefactor  suddenly  emerged.  He 
blew  his  whistle  four  times.  At  each  call  a  stalwart  Arab 
appeared. 

"  Shut  the  gate !  "  he  commanded  sternly. 


THE  GARDEN  201 

The  attendants  furiously  repulsed  the  mob,  using  their  fists 
and  feet  without  mercy.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  the  sand 
was  cleared  and  Smai'n  had  his  hand  upon  the  door  to  shut  it. 
But  the  Diviner  stopped  him  with  a  gesture,  and  in  a  fawning 
yet  imperious  voice  called  out  something  to  the  Count. 

The  Count  turned  to  Domini. 

"  This  is  an  interesting  fellow.  Would  you  like  to  know 
him?" 

Her  mind  said  no,  yet  her  body  assented.  For  she  bowed 
her  head.  The  Count  beckoned.  The  Diviner  stepped 
stealthily  on  to  the  sand  with  an  air  of  subtle  triumph,  and 
Smain  swung  forward  the  great  leaf  of  palm  wood. 

"Wait!  "  the  Count  cried,  as  if  suddenly  recollecting  some- 
thing. "Where  is  Monsieur  Androvsky?" 

"  Isn't  he ?  "  Domini  glanced  round.     "  I  don't  know." 

He  went  quickly  to  the  door  and  looked  out.  The  Arabs, 
silent  now  and  respectful,  crowded  about  him,  salaaming.  He 
smiled  at  them  kindly,  and  spoke  to  one  or  two.  They  answered 
gravely.  An  old  man  with  one  eye  lifted  his  hand,  in  which 
was  a  tom-tom  of  stretched  goatskin,  and  pointed  towards  the 
oasis,  rapidly  moving  his  toothless  jaws.  The  Count  stepped 
back  into  the  garden,  dismissed  his  pensioners  with  a  masterful 
wave  of  the  hand,  and  himself  shut  the  door. 

"  Monsieur  Androvsky  has  gone — without  saying  good-bye," 
he  said. 

Again  Domini  felt  ashamed  for  Androvsky. 

"  I  don't  think  he  likes  my  pensioners,"  the  Count  added, 
in  amused  voice,  "  or  me." 

"  I  am  sure "  Domini  began. 

But  he  stopped  her. 

"  Miss  Enfilden,  in  a  world  of  lies  I  look  to  you  for  truth." 

His  manner  chafed  her,  but  his  voice  had  a  ring  of 
earnestness.  She  said  nothing.  All  this  time  the  Diviner  was 
standing  on  the  sand,  still  smiling,  but  with  downcast  eyes.  His 
thin  body  looked  satirical  and  Domini  felt  a  strong  aversion  from 
him,  yet  a  strong  interest  in  him  too.  Something  in  his  appear- 
ance and  manner  suggested  power  and  mystery  as  well  as 
cunning.  The  Count  said  some  words  to  him  in  Arabic,  and 
at  once  he  walked  forward  and  disappeared  among  the  trees, 
going  so  silently  and  smoothly  that  she  seemed  to  watch  a 
panther  gliding  into  the  depths  of  a  jungle  where  its  prey  lay 
hid.  She  looked  at  the  Count  interrogatively. 

"  He  will  wait  in  the  fumoir." 


202  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

» 

'Where  we  first  met?" 
'  Yes  " 

I  What  for?" 

'  For  us,  if  you  choose." 

'  Tell  me  about  him.  I  have  seen  him  twice.  He  followed 
me  with  a  bag  of  sand." 

"  He  is  a  desert  man.  I  don't  know  his  tribe,  but  before  he 
settled  here  he  was  a  nomad,  one  of  the  wanderers  who  dwell  in 
tents,  a  man  of  the  sand;  as  much  of  the  sand  as  a  viper  or  a 
scorpion.  One  would  suppose  such  beings  were  bre'd  by  the 
marriage  of  the  sand-grains.  The  sand  tells  him  secrets." 

"  He  says.     Do  you  believe  it?  " 

"  Would  you  like  to  test  it?  " 

"How?" 

"  By  coming  with  me  to  the  fumoir?  " 

She  hesitated  obviously. 

"  Mind,"  he  added,  "  I  do  not  press  it.  A  word  from  me 
and  he  is  gone.  But  you  are  fearless,  and  you  have  spoken 
already,  will  speak  much  more  intimately  in  the  future,  with  the 
desert  spirits." 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  " 

"  The  '  much  more  intimately  '  ?  " 

II  Yes." 

"  I  do  not  know  it,  but — which  is  much  more — I  feel  it." 

She  was  silent,  looking  towards  the  trees  where  the  Diviner 
had  disappeared.  Count  Anteoni's  boyish  merriment  had  faded 
away.  He  looked  grave,  almost  sad. 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  she  said  at  last. '  "  No,  but — I  will  con- 
fess it — there  is  something  horrible  about  that  man  to  me.  I 
felt  it  the  first  time  I  saw  him.  His  eyes  are  too  intelligent. 
They  look  diseased  with  intelligence." 

"  Let  me  send  him  away.    Smai'n !  " 

But  she  stopped  him.  Directly  he  made  the  suggestion  she 
felt  that  she  must  know  more  of  this  man. 

"  No.     Let  us  go  to  the  fumoir." 

"Very  well.     Go,  Smam!" 

Smain  went  into  the  little  tent  by  the  gate,  sat  down  on 
his  haunches  and  began  to  smell  at  a  sprig  of  orange  blos- 
soms. Domini  and  the  Count  walked  into  the  darkness  of  the 
trees. 

"  What  is  his  name?  "  she  asked. 

"  Aloui." 

11  Aloiri." 


THE  GARDEN  203 

She  repeated  the  word  slowly.  There  was  a  reluctant  and 
yet  fascinated  sound  in  her  voice. 

"  There  is  melody  in  the  name,"  he  said. 

"  Yes.     Has  he — has  he  ever  looked  in  the  sand  for  you  ?  " 

"  Once — a  long  time  ago." 

"  May  I — dare  I  ask  if  he  found  truth  there?  " 

"  He  found  nothing  for  all  the  years  that  have  passed  since 
then." 

"Nothing!" 

There  was  a  sound  of  relief  in  her  voice. 

"  For  those  years." 

She  glanced  at  him  and  saw  that  once  again  his  face  had  lit 
up  into  ardour. 

"  He  found  what  is  still  to  come?  "  she  said. 

And  he  repeated: 

"  He  found  what  is  still  to  come." 

Then  they  walked  on  in  silence  till  they  saw  the  purple 
blossoms  of  the  bougainvillea  clinging  to  the  white  walls  of  the 
fumoir.     Domini  stopped  on  the  narrow  path. 
'  Is  he  in  there?  "  she  asked  almost  in  a  whisper. 
'  No  doubt." 
'  Larbi  was  playing  the  first  day  I  came  here." 

I  Yes." 

I 1  wish  he  was  playing  now." 

The  silence  seemed  to  her  unnaturally  intense. 

"  Even  his  love  must  have  repose." 

She  went  on  a  step  or  two  till,  but  still  from  a  distance,  she 
could  look  over  the  low  plaster  wall  beneath  the  nearest  window 
space  into  the  little  room. 

"  Yes,  there  he  is !  "  she  whispered. 

The  Diviner  was  crouching  on  the  floor  with  his  back 
towards  them  and  his  head  bent  down.  Only  his  shoulders 
could  be  seen,  covered  with  a  white  gandoura.  They  moved 
perpetually  but  slightly. 

"What  is  he  doing?" 

"  Speaking  with  his  ancestor." 

"  His  ancestor?  " 

"The  sand.     Aloui!" 

He  called  softly.  The  figure  rose,  without  sound  and  in- 
stantly, and  the  face  of  the  Diviner  smiled  at  them  through  the 
purple  flowers.  Again  Domini  had  the  sensation  that  her 
body  was  a  glass  box  in  which  her  thoughts,  feelings  and  desires 
were  ranged  for  this  man's  inspection ;  but  she  walked  resolutely 


204  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

through  the  narrow  doorway  and  sat  down  on  one  of  the 
divans.  Count  Anteoni  followed. 

She  now  saw  that  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  on  the  ground, 
there  was  a  symmetrical  pyramid  of  sand,  and  that  the  Diviner 
was  gently  folding  together  a  bag  in  his  long  and  flexible 
fingers. 

"You  see!  "said  the  Count. 

She  nodded,  without  speaking.  The  little  sand  heap  held 
her  eyes.  She  strove  to  think  it  absurd  and  the  man  who  had 
shaken  it  out  a  charlatan  of  the  desert,  but  she  was  really 
gripped  by  an  odd  feeling  of  awe,  as  if  she  were  secretly  ex- 
pectant of  some  magical  demonstration. 

The  Diviner  squatted  down  once,  more  on  his  haunches, 
stretched  out  his  fingers  above  the  sand  heap,  looked  at  her  and 
smiled. 

"  La  vie  de  Madame — I  see  it  in  the  sable — la  vie  de 
Madame  dans  le  grand  desert  du  Sahara." 

His  eyes  seemed  to  rout  out  the  secrets  from  every  corner  of 
her  being,  and  to  scatter  them  upon  the  ground  as  the  sand  was 
scattered. 

"  Dans  le  grand  desert  du  Sahara,"  Count  Anteoni  repeated, 
as  if  he  loved  the  music  of  the  words.  "  Then  there  is  a  desert 
life  for  Madame?  " 

The  Diviner  dropped  his  fingers  on  to  the  pyramid,  lightly 
pressing  the  sand  down  and  outward.  He  no  longer  looked  at 
Domini.  The  searching  and  the  satire  slipped  away  from  his 
eyes  and  body.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  two  watchers 
and  to  be  concentrated  upon  the  grains  of  sand.  Domini 
noticed  that  the  tortured  expression,  which  had  come  into  his 
face  when  she  met  him  in  the  street  and  he  stared  into  the  bag. 
had  returned  to  it.  After  pressing  down  the  sand  he  spread 
the  bag  which  had  held  it  at  Domini 's  feet,  and  deftly  transferred 
the  sand  to  it,  scattering  the  grains  loosely  over  the  sacking,  in 
a  sort  of  pattern.  Then,  bending  closely  over  them,  he  stared 
at  them  in  silence  for  a  long  time.  His  pock-marked  face  was 
set  like  stone.  His  emaciated  hands,  stretched  out,  rested  above 
the  grains  like  carven  things.  His  body  seemed  entirely  breath- 
less in  its  absolute  immobility. 

The  Count  stood  in  the  doorway,  still  as  he  was,  surrounded 
by  the  motionless  purple  flowers.  Beyond,  in  their  serried  ranks, 
stood  the  motionless  trees.  No  incense  was  burning  in  the 
little  brazier  to-day.  This  cloistered  world  seemed  spell-bound. 

A  low  murmur  at  last  broke  the  silence.     It  came  from  the 


THE  GARDEN  205 

Diviner.  He  began  to  talk  rapidly,  but  as  if  to  himself,  and  as 
he  talked  he  moved  again,  broke  up  with  his  fingers  the  pat- 
terns in  the  sand,  formed  fresh  ones;  spirals,  circles,  snake-like 
lines,  series  of  mounting  dots  that  reminded  Domini  of  spray 
flung  by  a  fountain,  curves,  squares  and  oblongs.  So  swiftly 
was  it  done  and  undone  that  the  sand  seemed  to  be  endowed 
with  life,  to  be  explaining  itself  in  these  patterns,  to  be  presenting 
deliberate  glimpses  of  hitherto  hidden  truths.  And  always  the 
voice  went  on,  and  the  eyes  were  downcast,  and  the  body,  save 
for  the  moving  hands  and  arms,  was  absolutely  motionless. 

Domini  looked  over  the  Diviner  to  Count  Anteoni,  who  came 
gently  forward  and  sat  down,  bending  his  head  to  listen  to  the 
voice. 

"  Is  it  Arabic?  "  she  whispered. 

He  nodded. 

"  Can  you  understand  it  ?  " 

"  Not  yet.  Presently  it  will  get  slower,  clearer.  He  always 
begins  like  this." 

"  Translate  it  for  me." 

"Exactly  as  it  is?" 

"  Exactly  as  it  is." 

"  Whatever  it  may  be?  " 

"  Whatever  it  may  be." 

He  glanced  at  the  tortured  face  of  the  Diviner  and  looked 
grave. 

"  Remember  you  have  said  I  am  fearless,"  she  said. 

He  answered: 

"  Whatever  it  is  you  shall  know  it." 

Then  they  were  silent  again.  Gradually  the  Diviner's  voice 
grew  clearer,  the  pace  of  its  words  less  rapid,  but  always  it 
sounded  mysterious  and  inward,  less  like  the  voice  of  a  man 
than  the  distant  voice  of  a  secret. 

"  I  can  hear  now,"  whispered  the  Count. 

"What  is  he  saying?" 

"  He  is  speaking  about  the  desert." 

"Yes?" 

"  He  sees  a  great  storm.     Wait  a  moment !  " 

The  voice  spoke  for  some  seconds  and  ceased,  and  once 
again  the  Diviner  remained  absolutely  motionless,  with  his  hands 
extended  above  the  grains  like  carven  things. 

"  He  sees  a  great  sand-storm,  one  of  the  most  terrible  that 
has  ever  burst  over  the  Sahara.  Everything  is  blotted  out.  The 
desert  vanishes.  Beni-Mora  is  hidden.  It  is  day,  yet  there  is  a 


206  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

darkness  like  night.  In  this  darkness  he  sees  a  train  of  camels 
waiting  by  a  church." 

"A  mosque?" 

"  No,  a  church.  In  the  church  there  is  a  sound  of  music. 
The  roar  of  the  wind,  the  roar  of  the  camels,  mingles  with  the 
chanting  and  drowns  it.  He  cannot  hear  it  any  more.  It  is  as 
if  the  desert  is  angry  and  wishes  to  kill  the  music.  In  the  church 
your  life  is  beginning." 

"My  life?" 

"  Your  real  life.  He  says  that  now  you  are  fully  born,  that 
till  now  there  has  been  a  veil  around  your  soul  like  the  veil  of 
the  womb  around  a  child." 

"He  says  that!" 

There  was  a  sound  of  deep  emotion  in  her  voice. 

"  That  is  all.  The  roar  of  the  wind  from  the  desert  has 
silenced  the  music  in  the  church,  and  all  is  dark." 

The  Diviner  moved  again,  and  formed  fresh  patterns  in  the 
sand  with  feverish  rapidity,  and  again  began  to  speak  swiftly. 

"  He  sees  the  train  of  camels  that  waited  by  the  church 
starting  on  a  desert  journey.  The  storm  has  not  abated.  They 
pass  through  the  oasis  into  the  desert.  He  sees  them  going 
towards  the  south." 

Domini  leaned  forward  on  the  divan,  looking  at  Count 
Anteoni  above  the  bent  body  of  the  Diviner. 

"  By  what  route?  "  she  whispered. 

"  By  the  route  which  the  natives  call  the  road  to  Tom- 
bouctou." 

"  But — it  is  my  journey!  " 

"  Upon  one  of  the  camels,  in  a  palanquin  such  as  the  great 
sheikhs  use  to  carry  their  women,  there  are  two  people,  pro- 
tected against  the  storm  by  curtains.  They  are  silent,  listening 
to  the  roaring  of  the  wind.  One  of  them  is  you." 

"Two  people!" 

"  Two  people." 

"  But — who  is  the  other?  " 

"  He  cannot  see.  It  is  as  if  the  blackness  of  the  storm 
were  deeper  round  about  the  other  and  hid  the  other  from  him. 
The  caravan  passes  on  and  is  lost  in  the  desolation  and  the 
storm." 

She  said  nothing,  but  looked  down  at  the  thin  body  of  the 
Diviner  crouched  close  to  her  knees.  Was  this  pock-marked 
face  the  face  of  a  prophet  ?  Did  this  skin  and  bone  envelop  the 
soul  of  a  seer?  She  no  longer  wished  that  Larbi  was  playing 


THE  GARDEN  207 

upon  his  flute  or  felt  the  silence  to  be  unnatural.  For  this  man 
had  filled  it  with  the  roar  of  the  desert  wind.  And  in  the  wind 
there  struggled  and  was  finally  lost  the  sound  of  voices  of  her 
Faith  chanting — what  ?  The  wind  was  too  strong.  The  voices 
were  too  faint.  She  could  not  hear. 

Once  more  the  Diviner  stirred.  For  some  minutes  his  fingers 
were  busy  in  the  sand.  But  now  they  moved  more  slowly  and 
no  words  came  from  his  lips.  Domini  and  the  Count  bent  low 
to  watch  what  he  was  doing.  The  look  of  torture  upon  his  face 
increased.  It  was  terrible,  and  made  upon  Domini  an  indelible 
impression,  for  she  could  not  helpi  connecting  it  with  his  vision 
of  her  future,  and  it  suggested  to  her  formless  phantoms  of 
despair.  She  looked  into  the  sand,  as  if  she,  too,  would  be  able 
to  see  what  he  saw  and  had  not  told,  looked  till  she  began  to  feel 
almost  hypnotised.  The  Diviner's  hands  trembled  now  as  they 
made  the  patterns,  and  his  breast  heaved  under  his  white 
robe.  Presently  he  traced  in  the  sand  a  triangle  and  began  to 
speak. 

The  Count  bent  down  till  his  ear  was  almost  at  the  Diviner's 
lips,  and  Domini  held  her  breath.  That  caravan  lost  in  the 
desolation  of  the  desert,  in  the  storm  and  the  darkness — where 
was  it?  What  had  been  its  fate?  Sweat  ran  down  over  the 
Diviner's  face,  and  dropped  upon  his  robe,  upon  his  hands,  upon 
the  sand,  making  dark  spots.  And  the  voice  whispered  on 
huskily  till  she  was  in  a  fever  of  impatience.  She  saw  upon  the 
face  of  the  Count  the  Diviner's  tortured  look  reflected.  Was  it 
not  also  on  her  face  ?  A  link  surely  bound  them  all  together  in 
this  tiny  room,  close  circled  by  the  tall  trees  and  the  intense 
silence.  She  looked  at  the  triangle  in  the  sand.  It  was  very 
distinct,  more  distinct  than  the  other  patterns  had  been.  What 
did  it  represent?  She  searched  her  mind,  thinking  of  the 
desert,  of  her  life  there,  of  man's  life  in  the  desert.  Was  it  not 
tent-shaped?  She  saw  it  as  a  tent,  as  her  tent  pitched  some- 
where in  the  waste  far  from  the  habitations  of  men.  Now  the 
trembling  hands  were  still,  the  voice  was  still,  but  the  sweat  did 
not  cease  from  dropping  down  upon  the  sand. 

"  Tell  me!  "  she  murmured  to  the  Count. 

He  obeyed,  seeming  now  to  speak  with  an  effort. 

"  It  is  far  away  in  the  desert " 

He  paused. 

"Yes?    Yes?" 

"  Very  far  away  in  a  sandy  place.  There  are  immense  dunes, 
immense  white  dunes  of  sand  on  every  side,  like  mountains. 


2o8  THE  GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

Near  at  hand  there  is  a  gleam  of  many  fires.  They  are  lit  in  the 
market-place  of  a  desert  city.  Among  the  dunes,  with  camels 
picketed  behind  it,  there  is  a  tent " 

She  pointed  to  the  triangle  traced  upon  the  sand. 

"  I  knew  it,"  she  whispered.     "  It  is  my  tent." 

"  He  sees  you  there,  as  he  saw  you  in  the  palanquin.  But 
now  it  is  night  and  you  are  quite  alone.  You  are  not  asleep. 
Something  keeps  you  awake.  You  are  excited.  You  go  out 
of  the  tent  upon  the  dunes  and  look  towards  the  fires  of  the  city. 
He  hears  the  jackals  howling  all  around  you,  and  sees  the  skele- 
tons of  dead  camels  white  under  the  moon." 

She  shuddered  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  There  is  something  tremendous  in  your  soul.  He  says  it  is 
as  if  all  the  date  palms  of  the  desert  bore  their  fruit  together, 
and  in  all  the  dry  places,  where  men  and  camels  have  died  of 
thirst  in  bygone  years,  running  springs  burst  forth,  and  as  if  the 
sand  were  covered  with  millions  of  golden  flowers  big  as  the 
flower  of  the  aloe." 

"  But  then  it  is  joy,  it  must  be  joy !  " 

"  He  says  it  is  great  joy." 

"  Then  why  does  he  look  like  that,  breathe  like  that  ?  " 

She  indicated  the  Diviner,  who  was  trembling  where  he 
crouched,  and  breathing  heavily,  and  always  sweating  like  one  in 
agony. 

"  There  is  more,"  said  the  Count,  slowly. 

"  Tell  me." 

"  You  stand  alone  upon  the  dunes  and  you  look  towards  the 
city.  He  hears  the  tom-toms  beating,  and  distant  cries  as  if 
there  were  a  fantasia.  Then  he  sees  a  figure  among  the  dunes 
coming  towards  you." 

"Who  is  it?  "she  asked. 

He  did  not  answer.  But  she  did  not  wish  him  to  answer. 
She  had  spoken  without  meaning  to  speak. 

"  You  watch  this  figure.     It  comes  to  you,  walking  heavily." 

"Walking  heavily?" 

"  That's  what  he  says.  The  dates  shrivel  on  the  palms,  the 
streams  dry  up,  the  flowers  droop  and  die  in  the  sand.  In  the 
city  the  tom-toms  faint  away  and  the  red  fires  fade  away.  All  is 
dark  and  silent.  And  then  he  sees " 

"  Wait !  "  Domini  said  almost  sharply. 

He  sat  looking  at  her.  She  pressed  her  hands  together. 
In  her  dark  face,  with  its  heavy  eyebrows  and  strong,  generous 
mouth,  a  contest  showed,  a  struggle  between  some  quick  desire 


THE  GARDEN  209 

and  some  more  sluggish  but  determined  reluctance.  In  a 
moment  she  spoke  again. 

"  I  won't  hear  anything  more,  please." 

"But  you  said  '  whatever  it  may  be.'  " 

"  Yes.     But  I  won't  hear  anything  more." 

She  spoke  very  quietly,  with  determination. 

The  Diviner  was  beginning  to  move  his  hands  again,  to  make 
fresh  patterns  in  the  sand,  to  speak  swiftly  once  more. 

"Shall  I  stop  him?" 

"  Please." 

"  Then  would  you  mind  going  out  into  the  garden  ?  I  will 
join  you  in  a  moment.  Take  care  not  to  disturb  him." 

She  got  up  with  precaution,  held  her  skirts  together  with  her 
hands,  and  slipped  softly  out  on  to  the  garden  path.  For  a 
moment  she  was  inclined  to  wait  there,  to  look  back  and  see 
what  was  happening  in  the  fumoir.  But  she  resisted  her  in- 
clination, and  walked  on  slowly  till  she  reached  the  bench  where 
she  had  sat  an  hour  before  with  Androvsky.  There  she  sat 
down  and  waited.  In  a  few  minutes  she  saw  the  Count  coming 
towards  her  alone.  His  face  was  very  grave,  but  lightened  with 
a  slight  smile  when  he  saw  her. 

"He  has  gone?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes." 

He  was  about  to  sit  beside  her,  but  she  said  quickly: 

"  Would  you  mind  going  back  to  the  jamelon  tree?  " 

"  Where  we  sat  this  morning?  " 

"  Was  it  only— yes." 

"  Certainly." 

"  Oh,  but  you  are  going  away  to-morrow !  You  have  a  lot  to 
do  probably  ?  " 

"  Nothing.     My  men  will  arrange  everything." 

She  got  up,  and  they  walked  in  silence  till  they  saw  once 
more  the  immense  spaces  of  the  desert  bathed  in  the  afternoon 
sun.  As  Domini  looked  at  them  again  she  knew  that  their 
wonder,  their  meaning,  had  increased  for  her.  The  steady 
crescendo  that  was  beginning  almost  to  frighten  her  was  main- 
tained— the  crescendo  of  the  voice  of  the  Sahara.  To  what 
tremendous  demonstration  was  this  crescendo  tending,  to  what 
ultimate  glory  or  terror?  She  felt  that  her  soul  was  as  yet  too 
undeveloped  to  conceive.  The  Diviner  had  been  right.  There 
was  a  veil  around  it,  like  the  veil  of  the  womb  that  hides  the  un- 
born child. 

Under  the  jamelon  tree  she  sat  down  once  more. 


210  THE  GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  May  I  light  a  cigar?  "  the  Count  asked. 

"  Do." 

He  struck  a  match,  lit  a  cigar,  and  sat  down  on  her  left,  by 
the  garden  wall. 

"  Tell  me  frankly,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  wish  to  talk  or  to  be 
silent?" 

"  I  wish  to  speak  to  you." 

"  I  am  sorry  now  I  asked  you  to  test  Alou'i's  powers." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  fear  they  made  an  unpleasant  impression  upon 
you." 

"  That  was  not  why  I  made  you  stop  him." 

"No?" 

"  You  don't  understand  me.  I  was  not  afraid.  I  can  only 
say  that,  but  I  can't  give  you  my  reason  for  stopping  him.  I 
wished  to  tell  you  that  it  was  not  fear." 

"  I  believe — I  know  that  you  are  fearless,"  he  said  with  an 
unusual  warmth.  "  You  are  sure  that  I  don't  understand 
you?" 

"  Remember  the  refrain  of  the  Freed  Negroes'  song !  " 

"  Ah,  yes — those  black  fellows.  But  I  know  something  of 
you,  Miss  Enfilden — yes,  I  do." 

"  I  would  rather  you  did — you  and  your  garden." 

"  And — some  day — I  should  like  you  to  know  a  little  more 
of  me." 

"Thank  you.     When  will  you  come  back?" 

"  I  can't  tell.     But  you  are  not  leaving?  " 

"  Not  yet." 

The  idea  of  leaving  Beni-Mora  troubled  her  heart  strangely. 

"  No,  I  am  too  happy  here." 

"  Are  you  really  happy?" 

"  At  any  rate  I  am  happier  than  I  have  ever  been  before." 

"  You  are  on  the  verge." 

He  was  looking  at  her  with  eyes  in  which  there  was  tender- 
ness, but  suddenly  they  flashed  fire,  and  he  exclaimed : 

"  My  desert  land  must  not  bring  you  despair." 

She  was  startled  by  his  sudden  vehemence. 

"  What  I  would  not  hear!  "  she  said.     "  You  know  it!  " 

"  It  is  not  my  fault.     I  am  ready  to  tell  it  to  you." 

"  No.  But  do  you  believe  it  ?  Do  you  believe  that  man  can 
read  the  future  in  the  sand?  How  can  it  be?  " 

"  How  can  a  thousand  things  be?  How  can  these  desert 
men  stand  in  fire,  with  their  naked  feet  set  on  burning  brands, 


THE  GARDEN  211 

with  burning  brands  under  their  armpits,  and  not  be  burned? 
How  can  they  pierce  themselves  with  skewers  and  cut  them- 
selves with  knives  and  no  blood  flow?  But  I  told  you  the  first 
day  I  met  you ;  the  desert  always  makes  me  the  same  gift  when  I 
return  to  it." 

"What  gift?" 

"  The  gift  of  belief." 

"  Then  you  do  believe  in  that  man — Alou'i  ?  " 

"Do  you?" 

"  I  can  only  say  that  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  it  might  be 
divination.  If  I  had  not  felt  that  I  should  not  have  stopped 
it.  I  should  have  treated  it  as  a  game." 

"  It  impressed  you  as  it  impresses  me.  Well,  for  both  of  us 
the  desert  has  gifts.  Let  us  accept  them  fearlessly.  It  is  the 
will  of  Allah." 

She  remembered  her  vision  of  the  pale  procession.  Would 
she  walk  in  it  at  last? 

"  You  are  as  fatalistic  as  an  Arab,"  she  said. 

"And  you?" 

"  I !  "  she  answered  simply.  "  I  believe  that  I  am  in  the 
hands  of  God,  and  I  know  that  perfect  love  can  never  harm 
me." 

After  a  moment  he  said,  gently: 

"  Miss  Enfilden,  I  want  to  ask  something  of  you."x 

"Yes?" 

"  Will  you  make  a  sacrifice  ?  To-morrow  I  start  at  dawn. 
Will  you  be  here  to  wish  me  God  speed  on  my  journey  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  will." 

"  It  will  be  good  of  you.  I  shall  value  it  from  you.  And — 
and  when — if  you  ever  make  your  long  journey  on  that  road — 
the  route  to  the  south — I  will  wish  you  Allah's  blessing  in  the 
Garden  of  Allah." 

He  spoke  with  solemnity,  almost  with  passion,  and  she  felt 
the  tears  very  near  her  eyes.  Then  they  sat  in  silence,  looking 
out  over  the  desert. 

And  she  heard  its  voices  calling. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

ON  the  following  morning,  before  dawn,  Domini  awoke,  stirred 
from  sleep  by  her  anxiety,  persistent  even  in  what  seemed 
unconsciousness,  to  speed  Count  Anteoni  upon  his  desert  journey. 


212  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

She  did  not  know  why  he  was  going,  but  she  felt  that  some  great 
issue  in  his  life  hung  upon  the  accomplishment  of  the  purpose 
with  which  he  set  out,  and  without  affectation  she  ardently 
desired  that  accomplishment.  As  soon  as  she  awoke  she  lit  a 
candle  and  glanced  at  her  watch.  She  knew  by  the  hour  that 
the  dawn  was  near,  and  she  got  up  at  once  and  made  her  toilet. 
She  had  told  Batouch  to  be  at  the  hotel  door  before  sunrise  to 
accompany  her  to  the  garden,  and  she  wondered  if  he  were 
below.  A  stillness  as  of  deep  night  prevailed  in  the  house,  mak- 
ing her  movements,  while  she  dressed,  seem  unnaturally  loud. 
When  she  put  on  her  hat,  and  looked  into  the  glass  to  see  if  it 
were  just  at  the  right  angle,  she  thought  her  face,  always  white, 
was  haggard.  This  departure  made  her  a  little  sad.  It  sug- 
gested to  her  the  instability  of  circumstance,  the  perpetual 
change  that  occurs  in  life.  The  going  of  her  kind  host  made 
her  own  going  more  possible  than  before,  even  more  likely. 
Some  words  from  the  Bible  kept  on  running  through  her  brain : 
"  Here  have  we  no  continuing  city."  In  the  silent  darkness 
their  cadence  held  an  ineffable  melancholy.  Her  mind  heard 
them  as  the  ear,  in  a  pathetic  moment,  hears  sometimes  a  distant 
strain  of  music  wailing  like  a  phantom  through  the  invisible. 
And  the  everlasting  journeying  of  all  created  things  oppressed 
her  heart. 

When  she  had  buttoned  her  jacket  and  drawn  on  her  gloves 
she  went  to  the  French  window  and  pushed  back  the  shutters. 
A  wan  semi-darkness  looked  in  upon  her.  Again  she  wondered 
whether  Batouch  had  come.  It  seemed  to  her  unlikely.  She 
could  not  imagine  that  anyone  in  all  the  world  was  up  and 
purposeful  but  herself.  This  hour  seemed  created  as  a  curtain 
for  unconsciousness.  Very  softly  she  stepped  out  upon  the 
verandah  and  looked  over  the  parapet.  She  could  see  the  white 
road,  mysteriously  white,  below.  It  was  deserted.  She  leaned 
down. 

"  Batouch !  "  she  called  softly.     "  Batouch !  " 

He  might  be  hidden  under  the  arcade,  sleeping  in  his  burnous. 

"  Batouch !     Batouch !  " 

No  answer  came.  She  stood  by  the  parapet,  waiting  and 
looking  down  the  road. 

All  the  stars  had  faded,  yet  there  was  no  suggestion  of  the 
sun.  She  faced  an  unrelenting  austerity.  For  a  moment  she 
thought  of  this  atmosphere,  this  dense  stillness,  this  gravity  of 
vague  and  shadowy  trees,  as  the  environment  of  those  who  had 
erred,  of  the  lost  spirits  of  men  who  had  died  in  mortal  sin. 


THE  GARDEN  213 

Almost  she  expected  to  see  the  desperate  shade  of  her  dead 
father  pass  between  the  black  stems  of  the  palm  trees,  vanish  into 
the  grey  mantle  that  wrapped  the  hidden  world. 

"Batouch!     Batouch!" 

He  was  not  there.  That  was  certain.  She  resolved  to  set 
out  alone  and  went  back  into  her  bedroom  to  get  her  revolver. 
When  she  came  out  again  with  it  in  her  hand  Androvsky  was 
standing  on  the  verandah  just  outside  her  window.  He  took  off 
his  hat  and  looked  from  her  face  to  the  revolver.  She  was 
startled  by  his  appearance,  for  she  had  not  heard  his  step,  and 
had  been  companioned  by  a  sense  of  irreparable  solitude.  This 
was  the  first  time  she  had  seen  him  since  he  vanished  from  the 
garden  on  the  previous  day. 

"  You  are  going  out,  Madame  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes." 

"Not  alone?" 

"  I  believe  so.     Unless  I  find  Batouch  below." 

She  slipped  the  revolver  into  the  pocket  of  the  loose  coat  she 
wore. 

"  But  it  is  dark." 

"  It  will  be  day  very  soon.     Look!" 

She  pointed  towards  the  east,  where  a  light,  delicate  and 
mysterious  as  the  distant  lights  in  the  opal,  was  gently  pushing 
in  the  sky. 

"  You  ought  not  to  go  alone." 

"  Unless  Batouch  is  there  I  must.  I  have  given  a  promise 
and  I  must  keep  it.  There  is  no  danger." 

He  hesitated,  looking  at  her  with  an  anxious,  almost  a  sus- 
picious, expression. 

"  Good-bye,  Monsieur  Androvsky." 

She  went  towards  the  staircase.  He  followed  her  quickly  to 
the  head  of  it. 

"  Don't  trouble  to  come  down  with  me." 

"  If — if  Batouch  is  not  there — might  not  I  guard  you, 
Madame?"  She  remembered  the  Count's  words  and  an- 
swered : 

"  Let  me  tell  you  where  I  am  going.  I  am  going  to  say 
good-bye  to  Count  Anteoni  before  he  starts  for  his  desert 
journey." 

Androvsky  stood  there  without  a  word. 

"  Now,  do  you  care  to  come  if  I  don't  find  Batouch?  Mind, 
I'm  not  the  least  afraid." 

"  Perhaps  he  is  there — if  you  told  him." 


2i4  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

He  muttered  the  words.     His  whole  manner  had  changed. 
Now  he  looked  more  than  suspicious — cloudy  and  fierce. 

"  Possibly." 

She  began  to  descend  the  stairs.  He  did  not  follow  her,  but 
stood  looking  after  her.  When  she  reached  the  arcade  it  was 
deserted.  Batouch  had  forgotten  or  had  overslept  himself. 
She  could  have  walked  on  under  the  roof  that  was  the  floor 
•of  the  verandah,  but  instead  she  stepped  out  into  the  road. 
Androvsky  was  above  her  by  the  parapet.  She  glanced  up  and 
said: 

"He  is  not  here,  but  it  is  of  no  consequence.  Dawn  is 
breaking.  Au  revoir!  " 

Slowly  he  took  off  his  hat.  As  she  went  away  down  the  road 
he  was  holding  it  in  his  hand,  looking  after  her. 

"  He  does  not  like  the  Count,"  she  thought. 

At  the  corner  she  turned  into  the  street  where  the  sand 
diviner  had  his  bazaar,  and  as  she  neared  his  door  she  was 
aware  of  a  certain  trepidation.  She  did  not  want  to  see  those 
piercing  eyes  looking  at  her  in  the  semi-darkness,  and  she  hur- 
ried her  steps.  But  her  anxiety  was  needless.  All  the  doors 
were  shut,  all  the  inhabitants  doubtless  wrapped  in  sleep.  Yet, 
when  she  had  gained  the  end  of  the  street,  she  looked  back,  half 
expecting  to  see  an  apparition  of  a  thin  figure,  a  tortured  face,  to 
hear  a  voice,  like  a  goblin's  voice,  calling  after  her.  Midway 
down  the  street  there  was  a  man  coming  slowly  behind  her.  Fof 
a  moment  she  thought  it  was  the  Diviner  in  pursuit,  but  some- 
thing in  the  gait  soon  showed  her  her  mistake.  There  was  a 
heaviness  in  the  movement  of  this  man  quite  unlike  the  lithe  and 
serpentine  agility  of  Aloui.  Although  she  could  not  see  the  face, 
or  even  distinguish  the  costume  in  the  morning  twilight,  she 
knew  it  for  Androvsky.  From  a  distance  he  was  watching  over 
her.  She  did  not  hesitate,  but  walked  on  quickly  again.  She  did 
not  wish  him  to  know  that  she  had  seen  him.  When  she  came 
to  the  long  road  that  skirted  the  desert  she  met  the  breeze  of 
dawn  that  blows  out  of  the  east  across  the  flats,  and  drank  in 
its  celestial  purity.  Between  the  palms,  far  away  towards  Sidi- 
Zerzour,  above  the  long  indigo  line  of  the  Sahara,  there  rose  a 
curve  of  deep  red  gold.  The  sun  was  coming  up  to  take  posses- 
sion of  his  waiting  world.  She  longed  to  ride  out  to  meet  him, 
to  give  him  a  passionate  welcome  in  the  sand,  and  the  opening 
words  of  the  Egyptian  "Adoration  of  the  Sun  by  the  Perfect 
Souls  "  came  to  her  lips : 

"  Hommage  a  Toi.     Dieu  Soleil.     Seigneur  du  Ciel,  Roi  sur 


THE  GARDEN  215 

la  Terre!  Lion  du  Soir!  Grande  Ame  divine,  vivante  a 
toujours." 

Why  had  she  not  ordered  her  horse  to  ride  a  little  way  with 
Count  Anteoni  ?  She  might  have  pretended  that  she  was  start- 
ing on  her  great  journey. 

The  red  gold  curve  became  a  semi-circle  of  burnished  glory 
resting  upon  the  deep  blue,  then  a  full  circle  that  detached  itself 
majestically  and  mounted  calmly  up  the  cloudless  sky.  A  stream 
of  light  poured  into  the  oasis,  and  Domini,  who  had  paused  for  a 
moment  in  silent  worship,  went  on  swiftly  through  the  negro 
village  which  was  all  astir,  and  down  the  track  to  the  white  villa. 

She  did  not  glance  round  again  to  see  whether  Androvsky  was 
still  following  her,  for,  since  the  sun  had  come,  she  had  the 
confident  sensation  that  he  was  no  longer  near. 

He  had  surely  given  her  into  the  guardianship  of  the  sun. 

The  door  of  the  garden  stood  wide  open,  and,  as  she  entered, 
she  saw  three  magnificent  horses  prancing  upon  the  sweep  of 
sand  in  the  midst  of  a  little  group  of  Arabs.  Smai'n  greeted  her 
with  graceful  warmth  and  begged  her  to  follow  him  to  the 
fumoir,  where  the  Count  was  waiting  for  her. 

"It  is  good  of  you!"  the  Count  said,  meeting  her  in  the 
doorway.  "  I  relied  on  you,  you  see !  " 

Breakfast  for  two  was  scattered  upon  the  little  smoking- 
tables;  coffee,  eggs,  rolls,  fruit,  sweetmeats.  And  everywhere 
sprigs  of  orange  blossom  filled  the  cool  air  with  delicate 
sweetness. 

"  How  delicious !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  A  breakfast  here !  But 
— no,  not  there !  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  That  is  exactly  where  he  was." 

"  Alou'i !     How  superstitious  you  are !  " 

He  moved  her  table.  She  sat  down  near  the  doorway  and 
poured  out  coffee  for  them  both. 

"  You  look  workmanlike." 

She  glanced  at  his  riding-dress  and  long  whip.  Smoked 
glasses  hung  across  his  chest  by  a  thin  cord. 

"  I  shall  have  some  hard  riding,  but  I'm  tough,  though  you 
may  not  think  it.  I've  covered  many  a  league  of  my  friend  in 
bygone  years." 

He  tapped  an  eggshell  smartly,  and  began  to  eat  with 
appetite. 

"  How  gravely  gay  you  are!  "  she  said,  lifting  the  steaming 
coffee  to  her  lips. 


216  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

He  smiled. 

"  Yes.  To-day  I  am  happy,  as  a  pious  man  is  happy  when, 
after  a  long  illness,  he  goes  once  more  to  church." 

!<  The  desert  seems  to  be  everything  to  you." 

"  I  feel  that  I  am  going  out  to  freedom,  to  more  than  free- 
dom." He  stretched  out  his  arms  above  his  head. 

"  Yet  you  have  stayed  always  in  this  garden  all  these  days." 

"  I  was  waiting  for  my  summons,  as  you  will  wait  for  yours." 

"  What  summons  could  I  have  ?  " 

"  It  will  come !  "  he  said  with  conviction.  "  It  will  come !  " 
She  was  silent,  thinking  of  the  diviner's  vision  in  the  sand,  of  the 
caravan  of  camels  disappearing  in  the  storm  towards  the  south. 
Presently  she  asked  him: 

"  Are  you  ever  coming  back  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise,  then  laughed. 

"  Of  course.     What  are  you  thinking  ?  " 

"  That  perhaps  you  will  not  come  back,  that  perhaps  the 
desert  will  keep  you." 

"  And  my  garden  ?  " 

She  looked  out  across  the  tiny  sand-path  and  the  running 
rill  of  water  to  the  great  trees  stirred  by  the  cool  breeze  of 
dawn. 

"  It  would  miss  you." 

After  a  moment,  during  which  his  bright  eyes  followed  hers, 
he  said: 

"  Do  you  know,  I  have  a  great  belief  in  the  intuitions  of 
good  women  ?  " 

"Yes?" 

"  An  almost  fanatical  belief.  Will  you  answer  me  a  question 
at  once,  without  consideration,  without  any  time  for  thought  ?  " 

"  If  you  ask  me  to." 

"  I  do  ask  you." 

"Then ?" 

"  Do  you  see  me  in  this  garden  any  more  ?  " 

A  voice  answered: 

"  No." 

It  was  her  own,  yet  it  seemed  another's  voice,  with  which  she 
had  nothing  to  do. 

A  great  feeling  of  sorrow  swept  over  her  as  she  heard  it. 

"  Do  come  back!  "  she  said. 

The  Count  had  got  up.  The  brightness  of  his  eyes  was 
obscured. 

"  If  not  here,  we  shall  meet  again,"  he  said  slowly. 


THE  GARDEN  217 

11  Where  ?" 

"  In  the  desert." 

"  Did  the  Diviner ?     No,  don't  tell  me." 

She  got  up  too. 

"  It  is  time  for  you  to  start?  " 

"  Nearly." 

A  sort  of  constraint  had  settled  over  them.  She  felt  it  pain- 
fully for  a  moment.  Did  it  proceed  from  something  in  his 
mind  or  in  hers?  She  could  not  tell.  They  walked  slowly 
down  one  of  the  little  paths  and  presently  found  themselves 
before  the  room  in  which  sat  the  purple  dog. 

"  If  I  am  never  to  come  back  I  must  say  good-bye  to  him," 
the  Count  said. 

"  But  you  will  come  back." 

"  That  voice  said  'No.'  " 

"It  was  a  lying  voice." 

"  Perhaps." 

They  looked  in  at  the  window  and  met  the  ferocious  eyes  of 
the  dog. 

"  And  if  I  never  come  back  will  he  bay  the  moon  for  his 
old  master?  "  said  the  Count  with  a  whimsical,  yet  sad,  smile. 
"  I  put  him  here.  And  will  these  trees,  many  of  which  I 
planted,  whisper  a  regret?  Absurd,  isn't  it,  Miss  Enfilden?  I 
never  can  feel  that  the  growing  things  in  my  garden  do  not 
know  me  as  I  know  them." 

"  Someone  will  regret  you  if " 

"  Will  you  ?    Will  you  really  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  believe  it." 

He  looked  at  her.  She  could  see,  by  the  expression  of 
his  eyes,  that  he  was  on  the  point  of  saying  something,  but 
was  held  back  by  some  fighting  sensation,  perhaps  by  some 
reserve. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  May  I  speak  frankly  to  you  without  offence?"  he  asked. 
"  I  am  really  rather  old,  you  know." 

"  Do  speak." 

'  That  guest  of  mine  yesterday " 

"  Monsieur  Androvsky  ?  " 

"  Yes.     He  interested  me  enormously,  profoundly." 

"  Really!     Yet  he  was  at  his  worst  yesterday." 

"  Perhaps  that  was  why.  At  any  rate,  he  interested  me  more 
than  any  man  I  have  seen  for  years.  But " 


2i8  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

He  paused,  looking  in  at  the  little  chamber  where  the  dog 
kept  guard. 

"  But  my  interest  was  complicated  by  a  feeling  that  I 
was  face  to  face  with  a  human  being  who  was  at  odds 
with  life,  with  himself,  even  with  his  Creator — a  man  who 
had  done  what  the  Arabs  never  do — defied  Allah  in  Allah's 
garden." 

"Oh!" 

She  uttered  a  little  exclamation  of  pain.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  he  was  gathering  up  and  was  expressing  scattered,  half 
formless  thoughts  of  hers. 

"  You  know,"  he  continued,  looking  more  steadily  into  the 
room  of  the  dog,  "  that  in  Algeria  there  is  a  floating  population 
composed  of  many  mixed  elements.  I  could  tell  you  strange 
stories  of  tragedies  that  have  occurred  in  this  land,  even  here  in 
Beni-Mora,  tragedies  of  violence,  of  greed,  of — tragedies  that 
were  not  brought  about  by  Arabs." 

He  turned  suddenly  and  looked  right  into  her  eyes. 

"But  why  am  I  saying  all  this?"  he  suddenly  exclaimed. 
"  What  is  written  is  written,  and  such  women  as  you  are 
guarded." 

"Guarded?     By  whom?" 

"  By  their  own  souls." 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  she  said  quietly. 

"Need  you  tell  me  that?  Miss  Enfilden,  I  scarcely  know 
why  I  have  said  even  as  little  as  I  have  said.  For  I  am,  as  you 
know,  a  fatalist.  But  certain  people,  very  few,  so  awaken  our 
regard  that  they  make  us  forget  our  own  convictions,  and  might 
even  lead  us  to  try  to  tamper  with  the  designs  of  the  Almighty. 
Whatever  is  to  be  for  you,  you  will  be  able  to  endure.  That 
I  know.  Why  should  I,  or  anyone,  seek  to  know  more  for  you? 
But  still  there  are  moments  in  which  the  bravest  want  a  human 
hand  to  help  them,  a  human  voice  .to  comfort  them.  In  the 
desert,  wherever  I  may  be — and  I  shall  tell  you — I  am  at  your 
service." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  simply. 

She  gave  him  her  hand.  He  held  it  almost  as  a  father  or  a 
guardian  might  have  held  it. 

"  And  this  garden  is  yours  day  and  night — Smain  knows." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  again. 

The  shrill  whinnying  of  a  horse  came  to  them  from  a  distance. 
Their  hands  fell  apart.  Count  Anteoni  looked  round  him 
slowly  at  the  great  cocoanut  tree,  at  the  shaggy  grass  of  the 


THE  GARDEN  219 

lawn,  at  the  tall  bamboos  and  the  drooping  mulberry  trees.  She 
saw  that  he  was  taking  a  silent  farewell  of  them. 

"  This  was  a  waste,"  he  said  at  last  with  a  half-stifled  sigh. 
"  I  turned  it  into  a  little  Eden  and  now  I  am  leaving  it." 

"  For  a  time." 

"  And  if  it  were  for  ever?  Well,  the  great  thing  is  to  let  the 
waste  within  one  be  turned  into  an  Eden,  if  that  is  possible. 
And  yet  how  many  human  beings  strive  against  the  great 
Gardener.  At  any  rate  I  will  not  be  one  of  them." 

"  And  I  will  not  be  one." 

"  Shall  we  say  good-bye  here  ?  " 

"  No.  Let  us  say  it  from  the  wall,  and  let  me  see  you  ride 
away  into  the  desert." 

She  had  forgotten  for  the  moment  that  his  route  was  the 
road  through  the  oasis.  He  did  not  remind  her  of  it.  It  was 
easy  to  ride  across  the  desert  and  join  the  route  where  it  came 
out  from  the  last  palms. 

"  So  be  it.     Will  you  go  to  the  wall  then  ?  " 

He  touched  her  hand  again  and  walked  away  towards  the 
villa,  slowly  on  the  pale  silver  of  the  sand.  When  his  figure 
was  hidden  by  the  trunks  of  the  trees  Domini  made  her  way  to 
the  wide  parapet.  She  sat  down  on  one  of  the  tiny  seats  cut  in 
it,  leaned  her  cheek  in  her  hand  and  waited.  The  sun  was 
gathering  strength,  but  the  air  was  still  deliciously  cool,  almost 
cold,  and  the  desert  had  not  yet  put  on  its  aspect  of  fiery  desola- 
tion. It  looked  dreamlike  and  romantic,  not  only  in  its  dis- 
tances, but  near  at  hand.  There  must  surely  be  dew,  she 
fancied,  in  the  Garden  of  Allah.  She  could  see  no  one  travelling 
in  it,  only  some  far  away  camels  grazing.  In  the  dawn  the 
desert  was  the  home  of  the  breeze,  of  gentle  sunbeams  and  of 
liberty.  Presently  she  heard  the  noise  of  horses  cantering  near 
at  hand,  and  Count  Anteoni,  followed  by  two  Arab  attendants, 
came  round  the  bend  of  the  wall  and  drew  up  beneath  her.  He 
rode  on  a  high  red  Arab  saddle,  and  a  richly-ornamented  gun 
was  slung  in  an  embroidered  case  behind  him  on  the  right-hand 
side.  A  broad  and  soft  brown  hat  kept  the  sun  from  his  fore^ 
head.  The  two  attendants  rode  on  a  few  paces  and  waited  in 
the  shadow  of  the  wall. 

"  Don't  you  wish  you  were  going  out?  "  he  said.  "  Out  into 
that?"  And  he  pointed  with  his  whip  towards  the  dreamlike 
blue  of  the  far  horizon.  She  leaned  over,  looking  down  at  him 
and  at  his  horse,  which  fidgeted  and  arched  his  white  neck  and 
dropped  foam  from  his  black  flexible  lips. 


220  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  No,"  she  answered  after  a  moment  of  thought.  "  I  must 
speak  the  truth,  you  know." 

"  To  me,  always." 

"  I  feel  that  you  were  right,  that  my  summons  has  not  yet 
come  to  me." 

"  And  when  it  comes?  " 

"I  shall  obey  it  without  fear,  even  if  I  go  in  the  storm  and 
the  darkness." 

He  glanced  at  the  radiant  sky,  at  the  golden  beams  slanting 
down  upon  the  palms. 

"  The  Coran  says :  '  The  fate  of  every  man  have  We  bound 
about  his  neck.'  May  yours  be  as  serene,  as  beautiful,  as  a 
string  of  pearls." 

"  But  I  have  never  cared  to  wear  pearls/'  she  answered. 

"  No  ?     What  are  your  stones  ?  " 

"  Rubies." 

"Blood!     No  others?" 

"  Sapphires." 

"  The  sky  at  night." 

"  And  opals." 

"  Fires  gleaming  across  the  white  of  moonlit  dunes.  Do  you 
remember?  " 

"  I  remember." 

"  And  you  do  not  ask  me  for  the  end  of  the  Diviner's  vision 
even  now  ?  " 

"  No." 

She  hesitated  for  an  instant.     Then  she  added : 

"  I  will  tell  you  why.  It  seemed  to  me  that  there  was 
another's  fate  in  it  as  well  as  my  own,  and  that  to  hear  would  be 
to  intrude,  perhaps,  upon  another's  secrets." 

"  That'  was  your  reason  ?  " 

"  My  only  reason."  And  then  she  added,  repeating  con- 
sciously Androvsky's  words :  "  I  think  there  are  things  that 
should  be  let  alone." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right." 

A  stronger  breath  of  the  cool  wind  came  over  the  flats,  and  all 
the  palm  trees  rustled.  Through  the  garden  there  was  a  delicate 
stir  of  life. 

"  My  children  are  murmuring  farewell,"  said  the  Count.  "  I 
hear  them.  It  is  time !  Good-bye,  Miss  Enfilden — my  friend,  if 
I  may  call  you  so.  May  Allah  have  you  in  his  keeping,  and, 
when  your  summons  comes,  obey  it — alone." 

As  he  said  the  last  word  his  grating  voice  dropped  to  a  deep 


THE  GARDEN  221 

note  of  earnest,  almost  solemn,  gravity.  Then  he  lifted  his  hat, 
touched  his  horse  with  his  heel,  and  galloped  away  into  the  sun. 

Domini  watched  the  three  riders  till  they  were  only  specks 
on  the  surface  of  the  desert.  Then  they  became  one  with  it,  and 
were  lost  in  the  dreamlike  radiance  of  the  morning.  But  she  did 
not  move.  She  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  up  on  the  blue  horizon. 
A  great  loneliness  had  entered  into  her  spirit.  Till  Count 
Anteoni  had  gone  she  did  not  realise  how  much  she  had  become 
accustomed  to  his  friendship,  how  near  their  sympathies  had  been. 
But  directly  those  tiny,  moving  specks  became  one  with  the 
desert  she  knew  that  a  gap  had  opened  in  her  life.  It  might  be 
small,  but  it  seemed  dark  and  deep.  For  the  first  time  the  desert, 
which  she  had  hitherto  regarded  as  a  giver,  had  taken  something 
from  her.  And  now,  as  she  sat  looking  at  it,  while  the  sun  grew 
stronger  and  the  light  more  brilliant,  while  the  mountains 
gradually  assumed  a  harsher  aspect,  and  the  details  of  things,  in 
the  dawn  so  delicately  clear,  became,  as  it  were,  more  piercing  in 
their  sharpness,  she  realised  a  new  and  terrible  aspect  of  it.  That 
which  has  the  power  to  bestow  has  another  power.  She  had  seen 
the  great  procession  of  those  who  had  received  gifts  of  the  desert's 
hands.  Would  she  some  day,  or  in  the  night  when  the  sky  was 
like  a  sapphire,  see  the  procession  of  those  from  whom  the  desert 
had  taken  away  perhaps  their  dreams,  perhaps  their  hopes, 
perhaps  even  all  that  they  passionately  loved  and  had  desper- 
ately clung  to? 

And  in  which  of  the  two  processions  would  she  walk? 

She  got  up  with  a  sigh.  The  garden  had  become  tragic  to 
her  for  the  moment,  full  of  a  brooding  melancholy.  As  she 
turned  to  leave  it  she  resolved  to  go  to  the  priest.  She  had  never 
yet  entered  his  house.  Just  then  she  wanted  to  speak  to  some- 
one with  whom  she  could  be  as  a  little  child,  to  whom  she  could 
liberate  some  part  of  her  spirit  simply,  certain  of  a  simple,  yet  not 
foolish,  reception  of  it  by  one  to  whom  she  could  look  up.  She 
desired  to  be  not  with  the  friend  so  much  as  with  the  spiritual 
director.  Something  was  alive  within  her,  something  of  distress, 
almost  of  apprehension,  which  needed  the  soothing  hand,  not  of 
human  love,  but  of  religion. 

When  she  reached  the  priest's  house  Beni-Mora  was  astir  with 
a  pleasant  bustle  of  life.  The  military  note  pealed  through  its 
symphony.  Spahis  were  galloping  along  'the  white  roads. 
Tirailleurs  went  by  bearing  despatches.  Zouaves  stood  under 
the  palms,  staring  calmly  at  the  morning,  their  sunburned  hands 
loosely  clasped  upon  muskets  whose  butts  rested  in  the  sand. 


222  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

But  Domini  scarcely  noticed  the  brilliant  gaiety  of  the  life 
about  her.  She  was  preoccupied,  even  sad.  Yet,  as  she  entered 
the  little  garden  of  the  priest,  and  tapped  gently  at  his  door,  a 
sensation  of  hope  sprang  up  in  her  heart,  born  of  the  sustaining 
power  of  her  religion. 

An  Arab  boy  answered  her  knock,  said  that  the  Father  was  in 
and  led  her  at  once  to  a  small,  plainly-furnished  room,  with 
whitewashed  walls,  and  a  window  opening  on  to  an  enclosure  at 
the  back,  where  several  large  palm  trees  reared  their  tufted  heads 
above  the  smoothly-raked  sand.  In  a  moment  the  priest  came 
in,  smiling  with  pleasure  and  holding  out  his  hands  in  welcome. 

"  Father,"  she  said  at  once,  "  I  am  come  to  have  a  little  talk 
with  you.  Have  you  a  few  moments  to  give  me  ?  " 

"  Sit  down,  my  child,"  he  said. 

He  drew  forward  a  straw  chair  for  her  and  took  one  opposite. 

"  You  are  not  in  trouble  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should  be,  but " 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.     Then  she  said : 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  a  little  about  my  life." 

He  looked  at  her  kindly  without  a  word. 

His  eyes  were  an  invitation  for  her  to  speak,  and,  without 
further  invitation,  in  as  few  and  simple  words  as  possible,  she 
told  him  why  she  had  come  to  Beni-Mora,  and  something  of  her 
parents'  tragedy  and  its  effect  upon  her. 

"  I  wanted  to  renew  my  heart,  to  find  myself,"  she  said. 
"  My  life  has  been  cold,  careless.  I  never  lost  my  faith,  but  I 
almost  forgot  that  I  had  it.  I  made  little  use  of  it.  I  let  it 
rust." 

"  Many  do  that,  but  a  time  comes  when  they  feel  that  the 
great  weapon  with  which  alone  we  can  fight  the  sorrows  and 
dangers  of  the  world  must  be  kept  bright,  or  it  may  fail  us  in  the 
hour  of  need." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  this  is  an  hour  of  need  for  you.  But,  indeed,  is  there 
ever  an  hour  that  is  not?  " 

"  I  feel  to-day,  I " 

She  stopped,  suddenly  conscious  of  the  vagueness  of  her  appre- 
hension. It  made  her  position  difficult,  speech  hard  for  her. 
She  felt  that  she  wanted  something,  yet  scarcely  knew  what,  or 
exactly  why  she  had  come. 

"  I  have  been  saying  good-bye  to  Count  Anteoni,"  she  re- 
sumed. "  He  has  gone  on  a  desert  journey." 

"  For  long?" 


THE  GARDEN  223 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  feel  that  it  will  be." 

"  He  comes  and  goes  very  suddenly.  Often  he  is  here  and  I 
do  not  even  know  it." 

"  He  is  a  strange  man,  but  I  think  he  is  a  good  man." 

As  she  spoke  about  him  she  began  to  realise  that  something 
in  him  had  roused  the  desire  in  her  to  come  to  the  priest. 

"  And  he  sees  far,"  she  added. 

She  looked  steadily  at  the  priest,  who  was  waiting  quietly  to 
hear  more.  She  was  glad  he  did  not  trouble  her  mind  just  then 
by  trying  to  help  her  to  go  on,  to  be  explicit. 

"  I  came  here  to  find  peace,"  she  continued.  "  And  I  thought 
I  had  found  it.  I  thought  so  till  to-day." 

"  We  only  find  peace  in  one  place,  and  only  there  by  our  own 
will  according  with  God's." 

"  You  mean  within  ourselves." 

"Is  it  not  so?" 

"  Yes.     Then  I  was  foolish  to  travel  in  search  of  it." 

"  I  would  not  say  that.  Place  assists  the  heart,  I  think,  and 
the  way  of  life.  I  thought  so  once." 

"  When  you  wished  to  be  a  monk?  " 

A  deep  sadness  came  into  his  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  And  even  now  I  find  it  very  difficult  to 
say,  '  It  was  not  thy  will,  and  so  it  is  not  mine.'  But  would  you 
care  to  tell  me  if  anything  has  occurred  recently  to  trouble  you  ?  " 

"  Something  has  occurred,  Father." 

More  excitement  came  into  her  face  and  manner. 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  went  on,  "  that  it  is  right  to  try  to  avoid 
what  life  seems  to  be  bringing  to  one,  to  seek  shelter  from — from 
the  storm  ?  Don't  monks  do  that  ?  Please  forgive  me  if " 

"  Sincerity  will  not  hurt  me,"  he  interrupted  quietly.  "  If  it 
did  I  should  indeed  be  unworthy  of  my  calling.  Perhaps  it  is 
not  right  for  all.  Perhaps  that  is  why  I  am  here  instead  of " 

"Ah,  but  I  remember,  you  wanted  to  be  one  of  the  freres 
armes" 

"  That  was  my  first  hope.  But  you  " — very  simply  he  turned 
from  his  troubles  to  hers — "  you  are  hesitating,  are  you  not, 
between  two  courses?  " 

"  I  scarcely  know.  But  I  want  you  to  tell  me.  Ought  we 
not  always  to  think  of  others  more  than  of  ourselves?  " 

"  So  long  as  we  take  care  not  to  put  ourselves  in  too  great 
danger.  The  soul  should  be  brave,  but  not  foolhardy." 

His  voice  had  changed,  had  become  stronger,  even  a  little 
stern. 


224  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  There  are  risks  that  no  good  Christian  ought  to  run :  it  is 
not  cowardice,  it  is  wisdom  that  avoids  the  Evil  One.  I  have 
known  people  who  seemed  almost  to  think  it  was  their  mission 
to  convert  the  fallen  angels.  They  confused  their  powers  with 
the  powers  that  belong  to  God  only." 

"  Yes,  but — it  is  so  difficult  to — if  a  human  being  were  pos- 
sessed by  the  devil,  would  not  you  try — would  you  not  go  near  to 
that  person  ?  " 

"  If  I  had  prayed,  and  been  told  that  any  power  was  given  me 
to  do  what  Christ  did." 

"  To  cast  out — yes,  I  know.  But  sometimes  that  power  is 
given — even  to  women." 

"  Perhaps  especially  to  them.  I  think  the  devil  has  more  fear 
of  a  good  mother  than  of  many  saints." 

Domini  realised  almost  with  agony  in  that  moment  how  her 
own  soul  had  been  stripped  of  a  precious  armour.  A  feeling  of 
bitter  helplessness  took  possession  of  her,  and  of  contempt  for 
what  she  now  suddenly  looked  upon  as  foolish  pride.  The  priest 
saw  that  his  words  had  hurt  her,  yet  he  did  not  just  then  try  to 
pour  balm  upon  the  wound. 

"  You  came  to  me  to-day  as  to  a  spiritual  director,  did  you 
not?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  Father." 

"  Yet  you  do  not  wish  to  be  frank  with  me.  Isn't  that 
true?" 

There  was  a  piercing  look  in  the  eyes  he  fixed  upon  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  bravely. 

"  Why?     Cannot  you — at  least  will  not  you  tell  me?  " 

A  similar  reason  to  that  which  had  caused  her  to  refuse  to 
hear  what  the  Diviner  had  seen  in  the  sand  caused  her  now  to 
answer : 

"  There  is  something  I  cannot  say.  I  am  sure  I  am  right  not 
to  say  it." 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  speak  frankly  to  you,  my  child?  " 

"  Yes,  you  may." 

"  You  have  told  me  enough  of  your  past  life  to  make  me  feel 
sure  that  for  some  time  to  come  you  ought  to  be  very  careful  in 
regard  to  your  faith.  By  the  mercy  of  God  you  have  been  pre- 
served from  the  greatest  of  all  dangers — the  danger  of  losing 
your  belief  in  the  teachings  of  the  only  true  Church.  You  have 
come  here  to  renew  your  faith  which,  not  killed,  has  been 
stricken,  reduced,  may  I  not  say?  to  a  sort  of  invalidism.  Are 
you  sure  you  are  in  a  condition  yet  to  help  " — he  hesitated  obvi- 


THE  GARDEN  225 

onsly,  then  slowly — "  others  ?  There  are  periods  in  which  one 
cannot  do  what  one  may  be  able  to  do  in  the  far  future.  The 
convalescent  who  is  just  tottering  in  the  new  attempt  to  walk  is 
not  wise  enough  to  lend  an  arm  to  another.  To  do  so  may  seem 
nobly  unselfish,  but  is  it  not  folly?  And  then,  my  child,  we 
ought  to  be  scrupulously  aware  what  is  our  real  motive  for  wish- 
ing to  assist  another.  Is  it  of  God,  or  is  it  of  ourselves?  Is  it  a 
personal  desire  to  increase  a  perhaps  unworthy,  a  worldly  happi- 
ness? Egoism  is  a  parent  of  many  children,  and  often  they  do 
not  recognise  their  father." 

Just  for  a  moment  Domini  felt  a  heat  of  anger  rise  within  her. 
She  did  not  express  it,  and  did  not  know  that  she  had  shown  a 
sign  of  it  till  she  heard  Father  Roubier  say : 

"  If  you  knew  how  often  I  have  found  that  what  for  a  mo- 
ment I  believed  to  be  my  noblest  aspirations  had  sprung  from  a 
tiny,  hidden  seed  of  egoism !  " 

At  once  her  anger  died  away. 

"  That  is  terribly  true,"  she  said.     "  Of  us  all,  I  mean." 

She  got  up. 

"  You  are  going  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  want  to  think  something  out.  You  have  made  me 
want  to.  I  must  do  it.  Perhaps  I'll  come  again." 

"  Do.     I  want  to  help  you  if  I  can." 

There  was  such  a  heartfelt  sound  in  his  voice  that  impulsively 
she  held  out  her  hand. 

"  I  know  you  do.     Perhaps  you  will  be  able  to." 

But  even  as  she  said  the  last  words  doubt  crept  into  her 
mind,  even  into  her  voice. 

The  priest  came  to  his  gate  to  see  Domini  off,  and  directly 
she  had  left  him  she  noticed  that  Androvsky  was  under  the 
arcade  and  had  been  a  witness  of  their  parting.  As  she  went 
past  him  and  into  the  hotel  she  saw  that  he  looked  greatly  dis- 
turbed and  excited.  His  face  wTas  lit  up  by  the  now  fiery  glare 
of  the  sun,  and  when,  in  passing,  she  nodded  to  him,  and  he 
took  off  his  hat,  he  cast  at  her  a  glance  that  was  like  an  accusa- 
tion. As  soon  as  she  gained  the  verandah  she  heard  his  heavy 
step  upon  the  stair.  For  a  moment  she  hesitated.  Should  she  go 
into  her  room  and  so  avoid  him,  or  remain  and  let  him  speak  to 
her?  She  knew  that  he  was  following  her  with  that  purpose. 
Her  mind  was  almost  instantly  made  up.  She  crossed  the  veran- 
dah and  sat  down  in  the  low  chair  that  was  always  placed  out- 
side her  French  window.  Androvsky  followed  her  and  stood 
beside  her.  He  did  not  say  anything  for  a  moment,  nor  did  she. 


226  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

Then  he  spoke  with  a  sort  of  passionate  attempt  to  sound  care- 
less and  indifferent. 

"  Monsieur  Anteoni  has  gone,  I  suppose,  Madame?  " 

"  Yes,  he  has  gone.  I  reached  the  garden  safely,  you 
see." 

"  Batouch  came  later.  He  was  much  ashamed  when  he  found 
you  had  gone.  I  believe  he  is  afraid,  and  is  hiding  himself  till 
your  anger  shall  have  passed  away." 

She  laughed. 

"  Batouch  could  not  easily  make  me  angry.  I  am  not  like 
you,  Monsieur  Androvsky." 

Her  sudden  challenge  startled  him,  as  she  had  meant  it 
should.  He  moved  quickly,  as  at  an  unexpected  touch. 

"I,  Madame?" 

"Yes;  I  think  you  are  very  often  angry.  I  think  you  are 
angry  now." 

His  face  was  flooded  with  red. 

"  Why  should  I  be  angry?  "  he  stammered,  like  a  man  com- 
pletely taken  aback. 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  But,  as  I  came  in  just  now,  you  looked  at 
me  as  if  you  wanted  to  punish  me." 

"  I — I  am  afraid — it  seems  that  my  face  says  a  great  deal  that 
_that " 

"  Your  lips  would  not  choose  to  say.  Well,  it  does.  Why 
are  you  angry  with  me?  "  She  gazed  at  him  mercilessly,  study- 
ing the  trouble  of  his  face.  The  combative  part  of  her  nature 
had  been  roused  by  the  glance  he  had  cast  at  her.  What  right 
had  he,  had  any  man,  to  look  at  her  like  that  ? 

Her  blunt  directness  lashed  him  back  into  the  firmness  he  had 
lost.  She  felt  in  a  moment  that  there  was  a  fighting  capacity  in 
him  equal,  perhaps  superior,  to  her  own. 

"  When  I  saw  you  come  from  the  priest's  house,  Madame,  I 
felt  as  if  you  had  been  there  speaking  about  me — about  my  con- 
duct of  yesterday." 

"  Indeed !     Why  should  I  do  that  ?  " 

"  I  thought  as  you  had  kindly  wished  me  to  come " 

He  stopped. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said,  in  rather  a  hard  voice. 

"  Madame,  I  don't  know  what  I  thought,  what  I  think — only 
I  cannot  bear  that  you  should  apologise  for  any  conduct  of  mine. 
Indeed,  I  canot  bear  it." 

He  looked  fearfully  excited  and  moved  two  or  three  steps 
away,  then  returned. 


THE  GARDEN  227 

"  Were  you  doing  that?  "  he  asked.    "  Were  you,  Madame?  " 

"  I  never  mentioned  your  name  to  Father  Roubier,  nor  did  he 
to  me,"  she  answered. 

For  a  moment  he  looked  relieved,  then  a  sudden  suspicion 
seemed  to  strike  him. 

"  But  without  mentioning  my  name  ?  "  he  said. 

"  You  wish  to  accuse  me  of  quibbling,  of  insincerity,  then !  " 
she  exclaimed  with  a  heat  almost  equal  to  his  own. 

"  No,  Madame,  no !  Madame,  I — I  have  suffered  much.  I 
am  suspicious  of  everybody.  Forgive  me,  forgive  me !  " 

He  spoke  almost  with  distraction.  In  his  manner  there  was 
something  desperate. 

"  I  am  sure  you  have  suffered,"  she  said  more  gently,  yet 
with  a  certain  inflexibility  at  which  she  herself  wondered,  yet 
which  she  could  not  control.  "  You  will  always  suffer  if  you 
cannot  govern  yourself.  You  will  make  people  dislike  you,  be 
suspicious  of  you." 

"  Suspicious !  Who  is  suspicious  of  me  ?  "  he  asked  sharply. 
"  Who  has  any  right  to  be  suspicious  of  me  ?  " 

She  looked  up  and  fancied  that,  for  an  instant,  she  saw  some- 
thing as  ugly  as  terror  in  his  eyes. 

"  Surely  you  know  that  people  don't  ask  permission  to  be 
suspicious  of  their  fellow-men  ?  "  she  said. 

"  No  one  here  has  any  right  to  consider  me  or  my  actions,"  he 
said,  fierceness  blazing  out  of  him.  "  I  am  a  free  man,  and  can 
do  as  I  will.  No  one  has  any  right — no  one!  " 

Domini  felt  as  if  the  w^ords  were  meant  for  her,  as  if  he  had 
struck  her.  She  was  so  angry  that  she  did  not  trust  herself  to 
speak,  and  instinctively  she  put  her  hand  up  to  her  breast,  as  a 
woman  might  who  had  received  a  blow.  She  touched  something 
small  and  hard  that  was  hidden  beneath  her  gown.  It  was  the 
little  wooden  crucifix  Androvsky  had  thrown  into  the  stream  at 
Sidi-Zerzour.  As  she  realised  that  her  anger  died.  She  was 
humbled  and  ashamed.  What  was  her  religion  if,  at  a  word,  she 
could  be  stirred  to  such  a  feeling  of  passion? 

"  I,  at  least,  am  not  suspicious  of  you,"  she  said,  choosing  the 
very  words  that  were  most  difficult  for  her  to  say  just  then. 
"  And  Father  Roubier — if  you  included  him — is  too  fine-hearted 
to  cherish  unworthy  suspicions  of  anyone." 

She  got  up.  Her  voice  was  full  of  a  subdued,  but  strong, 
emotion. 

"  Oh,  Monsieur  Androvsky!  "  she  said.  "  Do  go  over  and  see 
him.  Make  friends  with  him.  Never  mind  yesterday.  I  want 


228  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

you  to  be  friends  with  him,  with  everyone  here.  Let  us  make 
Beni-Mora  a  place  of  peace  and  good  will." 

Then  she  went  across  the  verandah  quickly  to  her  room,  and 
passed  in,  closing  the  window  behind  her. 

Dejeuner  was  brought  into  her  sitting-room.  She  ate  it  in 
solitude,  and  late  in  the  afternoon  she  went  out  on  the  verandah. 
She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  spend  an  hour  in  the  church.  She 
had  told  Father  Roubier  that  she  wanted  to  think  something  out. 
Since  she  had  left  him  the  burden  upon  her  mind  had  become 
heavier,  and  she  longed  to  be  alone  in  the  twilight  near  the  altar. 
Perhaps  she  might  be  able  to  cast  down  the  burden  there.  In 
the  verandah  she  stood  for  a  moment  and  thought  how  wonder- 
ful was  the  difference  between  dawn  and  sunset  in  this  land. 
The  gardens,  that  had  looked  like  a  place  of  departed  and  un- 
happy spirits  when  she  rose  that  day,  were  now  bathed  in  the 
luminous  rays  of  the  declining  sun,  were  alive  with  the  softly- 
calling  voices  of  children,  quivered  with  romance,  with  a  dream- 
like, golden  charm.  The  stillness  of  the  evening  was  intense, 
enclosing  the  children's  voices,  which  presently  died  away;  but 
while  she  was  marvelling  at  it  she  was  disturbed  by  a  sharp  noise 
of  knocking.  She  looked  in  the  direction  from  which  it  came 
and  saw  Androvsky  standing  before  the  priest's  door.  As  she 
looked,  the  door  was  opened  by  the  Arab  boy  and  Androvsky 
went  in. 

Then  she  did  not  think  of  the  gardens  any  more.  With  a 
radiant  expression  in  her  eyes  she  went  down  and  crossed  over 
to  the  church.  It  was  empty.  She  went  softly  to  a  prie-dieu 
near  the  altar,  knelt  down  and  covered  her  eyes  with  her 
hands. 

At  first  she  did  not  pray,  or  even  think  consciously,  but  just 
rested  in  the  attitude  which  always  seems  to  bring  humanity 
nearest  its  God.  And,  almost  immediately,  she  began  to  feel  a 
quietude  of  spirit,  as  if  something  delicate  descended  upon  her, 
and  lay  lightly  about  her,  shrouding  her  from  the  troubles  of  the 
world.  How  sweet  it  was  to  have  the  faith  that  brings  with  it 
such  tender  protection,  to  have  the  trust  that  keeps  alive  through 
the  swift  passage  of  the  years  the  spirit  of  the  little  child.  How 
sweet  it  was  to  be  able  to  rest.  There  was  at  this  moment  a 
sensation  of  deep  joy  within  her.  It  grew  in  the  silence  of  the 
church,  and,  as  it  grew,  brought  with  it  presently  a  growing  con- 
sciousness of  the  lives  beyond  those  walls,  of  other  spirits 
capable  of  suffering,  of  conflict,  and  of  peace,  not  far  away;  till 
she  knew  that  this  present  blessing  of  happiness  came  to  her,  not 


THE  GARDEN  229 

only  from  the  scarce-realised  thought  of  God,  but  also  from  the 
scarce-realised  thought  of  man. 

Close  by,  divided  from  her  only  by  a  little  masonry,  a 
few  feet  of  sand,  a  few  palm  trees,  Androvsky  was  with  the 
priest. 

Still  kneeling,  with  her  face  between  her  hands,  Domini  be- 
gan to  think  and  pray.  The  memory  of  her  petition  to  Notre 
Dame  de  la  Garde  came  back  to  her.  Before  she  knew  Africa 
she  had  prayed  for  men  wandering,  and  perhaps  unhappy,  there, 
for  men  whom  she  would  probably  never  see  again,  would  never 
know.  And  now  that  she  was  growing  familiar  with  this  land, 
divined  something  of  its  wonders  and  its  dangers,  she  prayed  for 
a  man  in  it  whom  she  did  not  know,  who  was  very  near  to  her 
making  a  sacrifice  of  his  prejudices,  perhaps  of  his  fears,  at  her 
desire.  She  prayed  for  Androvsky  without  words,  making  of 
her  feelings  of  gratitude  to  him  a  prayer,,  and  presently,  in  the 
darkness  framed  by  her  hands,  she  seemed  to  see  Liberty  once 
more,  as  in  the  shadows  of  the  dancing-house,  standing  beside  a 
man  who  prayed  far  out  in  the  glory  of  the  desert.  The  storm, 
spoken  of  by  the  Diviner,  did  not  always  rage.  It  was  stilled  to 
hear  his  prayer.  And  the  darkness  had  fled,  and  the  light  drew 
near  to  listen.  She  pressed  her  face  more  strongly  against  her 
hands,  and  began  to  think  more  definitely. 

Was  this  interview  with  the  priest  the  first  step  taken  by 
Androvsky  towards  the  gift  the  desert  held  for  him? 

He  must  surely  be  a  man  who  hated  religion,  or  thought  he 
hated  it. 

Perhaps  he  looked  upon  it  as  a  chain,  instead  of  as  the  hammer 
that  strikes  away  the  fetters  from  the  slave. 

Yet  he  had  worn  a  crucifix. 

She  lifted  her  head,  put  her  hand  into  her  breast,  and  drew 
out  the  crucifix.  What  was  its  history?  She  wondered  as  she 
looked  at  it.  Had  someone  who  loved  him  given  it  to  him, 
someone,  perhaps,  who  grieved  at  his  hatred  of  holiness,  and 
who  fancied  that  this  very  humble  symbol  might  one  day,  as  the 
humble  symbols  sometimes  do,  prove  itself  a  little  guide  towards 
shining  truth?  Had  a  woman  given  it  to  him? 

She  laid  the  cross  down  on  the  edge  of  the  prie-dieu. 

There  was  red  fire  gleaming  now  on  the  windows  of  the 
church.  She  realised  the  pageant  that  was  marching  up  the 
west,  the  passion  of  the  world  as  well  as  the  purity  which  lay  be- 
yond the  world.  Her  mind  was  disturbed.  She  glanced  from 
the  red  radiance  on  the  glass  to  the  dull  brown  wood  of  the 


230  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

cross.  Blood  and  agony  had  made  it  the  mystical  symbol  that 
it  was — blood  and  agony. 

She  had  something  to  think  out.  That  burden  was  still  upon 
her  mind,  and  now  again  she  felt  its  weight,  a  weight  that  her 
interview  with  the  priest  had  not  lifted.  For  she  had  not  been 
able  to  be  quite  frank  with  the  priest.  Something  had  held  her 
back  from  absolute  sincerity,  and  so  he  had  not  spoken  quite 
plainly  all  that  was  in  his  mind.  His  words  had  been  a  little 
vague,  yet  she  had  understood  the  meaning  that  lay  behind  them. 

Really,  he  had  warned  her  against  Androvsky.  There  were 
two  men  of  very  different  types.  One  was  unworldly  as  a  child. 
The  other  knew  the  world.  Neither  of  them  had  any  acquaint- 
ance with  Androvsky 's  history,  and  both  had  warned  her.  It 
was  instinct  then  that  had  spoken  in  them,  telling  them  that  he 
was  a  man  to  be  shunned,  perhaps  feared.  And  her  own  instinct? 
What  had  it  said  ?  What  did  it  say  ? 

For  a  long  time  she  remained  in  the  church.  But  she  could 
not  think  clearly,  reason  calmly,  or  even  pray  passionately.  For 
a  vagueness  had  come  into  her  mind  like  the  vagueness  of 
twilight  that  filled  the  space  beneath  the  starry  roof,  softening 
the  crudeness  of  the  ornaments,  the  garish  colours  of  the  plaster 
saints.  It  seemed  to  her  that  her  thoughts  and  feelings  lost  their 
outlines,  that  she  watched  them  fading  like  the  shrouded  forms 
of  Arabs  fading  in  the  tunnels  of  Mimosa.  But  as  they  vanished 
surely  they  whispered,  "  That  which  is  written  is  written." 

The  mosques  of  Islam  echoed  these  words,  and  surely  this 
little  church  that  bravely  stood  among  them. 

"  That  which  is  written  is  written." 

Domini  rose  from  her  knees,  hid  the  wooden  cross  once  «nore 
in  her  breast,  and  went  out  into  the  evening. 

As  she  left  the  church  door  something  occurred  which  struck 
the  vagueness  from  her.  She  came  upon  Androvsky  and  the 
priest.  They  were  standing  together  at  the  latter's  gate,  which 
he  was  in  the  act  of  opening  to -an  accompaniment  of  joyous 
barking  from  Bous-Bous.  Both  men  looked  strongly  expressive, 
as  if  both  had  been  making  an  effort  of  som£  kind.  She  stopped 
in  the  twilight  to  speak  to  them. 

"  Monsieur  Androvsky  has  kindly  been  paying  me  a  visit,'* 
said  Father  Roubier. 

"  I  am  glad,"  Domini  said.  "  We  ought  all  to  be  friends 
here." 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause.  Then  Androvsky  lifted  his 
hat. 


THE  GARDEN  231 

"  Good-evening,  Madame,"  he  said.  "  Good-evening, 
Father."  And  he  walked  away  quickly. 

The  priest  looked  after  him  and  sighed  profoundly. 

"  Oh,  Madame!  "  he  exclaimed,  as  if  impelled  to  liberate  his 
mind  to  someone,  "  what  is  the  matter  with  that  man  ?  What 
is  the  matter?  " 

He  stared  fixedly  into  the  twilight  after  Androvsky's  retreat- 
ing form. 

"  With  Monsieur  Androvsky?  " 

She  spoke  quietly,  but  her  mind  was  full  of  apprehension,  and 
she  looked  searchingly  at  the  priest. 

"Yes.    What  can  it  be?" 

"  But — I  don't  understand." 

"  Why  did  he  come  to  see  me  ?  " 

"  I  asked  him  to  come." 

She  blurted  out  the  words  without  knowing  why,  only  feeling 
that  she  must  speak  the  truth. 

"You  asked  him!" 

"  Yes.  I  wanted  you  to  be  friends — and  I  thought  perhaps 
you  might " 

"Yes?" 

"  I  wanted  you  to  be  friends."  She  repeated  it  almost 
stubbornly. 

"  I  have  never  before  felt  so  ill  at  ease  with  any  human  being," 
exclaimed  the  priest  with  tense  excitement.  "  And  yet  I  could 
not  let  him  go.  Whenever  he  was  about  to  leave  me  I  was 
impelled  to  press  him  to  remain.  We  spoke  of  the  most  ordi- 
nary things,  and  all  the  time  it  was  as  if  we  were  in  a  great 
tragedy.  What  is  he?  What  can  he  be ?"  (He  still  looked 
down  the  road.) 

"  I  don't  know.  I  know  nothing.  He  is  a  man  travelling,  as 
other  men  travel." 

"Oh,  no!" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Father?  " 

"  I  mean  that  other  travellers  are  not  like  this  man." 

He  leaned  his  thin  hands  heavily  on  the  gate,  and  she  saw, 
by  the  expression  of  his  eyes,  that  he  was  going  to  say  something 
startling. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  lowering  his  voice,  "  I  did  not  speak 
quite  frankly  to  you  this  afternoon.  You  may,  or  you  may  not, 
have  understood  what  I  meant.  But  now  I  will  speak  plainly. 
As  a  priest  I  warn  you,  I  warn  you  most  solemnly,  not  to  make 
friends  with  this  man." 


232  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

There  was  a  silence,  then  Domini  said : 

"  Please  give  me  your  reason  for  this  warning." 

;'  That  I  can't  do." 

"  Because  you  have  no  reason,  or  because  it  is  not  one  you 
care  to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  give.  My  reason  is  my  instinct.  I 
know  nothing  of  this  man — I  pity  him.  I  shall  pray  for  him. 
He  needs  prayers,  yes,  he  needs  them.  But  you  are  a  woman 
out  here  alone.  You  have  spoken  to  me  of  yourself,  and  I  feel 
it  my  duty  to  say  that  I  advise  you  most  earnestly  to  break  off 
your  acquaintance  with  Monsieur  Androvsky." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  think  him  evil?  " 

"  I  don't  know  whether  he  is  evil,  I  don't  know  what  he  is." 

"  I  know  he  is  not  evil." 

The  priest  looked  at  her,  wondering. 

"You  know— how?" 

"  My  instinct,"  she  said,  coming  a  step  nearer,  and  putting 
her  hand,  too,  on  the  gate  near  his.  "  Why  should  we  desert 
him?" 

"  Desert  him,  Madame!  " 

Father  Roubier's  voice  sounded  amazed. 

"  Yes.  You  say  he  needs  prayers.  I  know  it.  Father,  are 
not  the  first  prayers,  the  truest,  those  that  go  most  swiftly  to 
Heaven — acts  ?  " 

The  priest  did  not  reply  for  a  moment.  He  looked  at  her 
and  seemed  to  be  thinking  deeply. 

"  Why  did  you  send  Monsieur  Androvsky  to  me  this  after- 
noon ?  "  he  said  at  last  abruptly. 

"  I  knew  you  were  a  good  man,  and  I  fancied  if  you  became 
friends  you  might  help  him." 

His  face  softened. 

"  A  good  man,"  he  said.  "  Ah!  "  He  shook  his  head  sadly, 
with  a  sound  that  was  like  a  little  pathetic  laugh.  "  I — a  good 
man !  And  I  allow  an  almost  invincible  personal  feeling  to  con- 
quer my  inward  sense  of  right!  Madame,  come  into  the  garden 
for  a  moment." 

He  opened  the  gate,  she  passed  in,  and  he  led  her  round  the 
house  to  the  enclosure  at  the  back,  where  they  could  talk  in 
greater  privacy.  Then  he  continued: 

"  You  are  right,  Madame.  I  am  here  to  try  to  do  God's 
work,  and  sometimes  it  is  better  to  act  for  a  human  being,  per- 
haps, even  than  to  pray  for  him.  I  will  tell  you  that  I  feel  an 
almost  invincible  repugnance  to  Monsieur  Androvsky,  a  repug- 


THE  GARDEN  233 

nance  that  is  almost  stronger  than  my  will  to  hold  it  in  check." 
He  shivered  slightly.  "  But,  with  God's  help,  I'll  conquer  that. 
If  he  stays  on  here  I'll  try  to  be  his  friend.  I'll  do  all  I  can.  If 
he  is  unhappy,  far  away  from  good,  perhaps — I  say  it  humbly, 
Madame,  I  assure  you — I  might  help  him.  But  " — and  here  his 
face  and  manner  changed,  became  firmer,  more  dominating — 
"  you  are  not  a  priest,  and " 

"  No,  only  a  woman,"  she  said,  interrupting  him. 

Something  in  her  voice  arrested  him.  There  was  a  long 
silence  in  which  they  paced  slowly  up  and  down  on  the  sand 
between  the  palm  trees.  The  twilight  was  dying  into  night. 
Already  the  tom-toms  were  throbbing  in  the  street  of  the 
dancers,  and  the  shriek  of  the  distant  pipes  was  faintly  heard. 
At  last  the  priest  spoke  again. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  "  when  you  came  to  me  this  afternoon 
there  was  something  that  you  could  not  tell  me." 

"  Yes." 

"  Had  it  anything  to  do  with  Monsieur  Androvsky?  " 

"  I  meant  to  ask  you  to  advise  me  about  myself." 

"  My  advice  to  you  was  and  is — be  strong  but  not  too  fool- 
hardy." 

"  Believe  me  I  will  try  not  to  be  foolhardy.  But  you  said 
something  else  too,  something  about  women.  Don't  you  re- 
member? " 

She  stopped,  took  his  hands  impulsively  and  pressed  them. 

"  Father,  I've  scarcely  ever  been  of  any  use  all  my  life.  I've 
scarcely  ever  tried  to  be.  Nothing  within  me  said,  '  You  could 
be,'  and  if  it  had  I  was  so  dulled  by  routine  and  sorrow  that  I 
don't  think  I  should  have  heard  it.  But  here  it  is  different.  I 
am  not  dulled.  I  can  hear.  And — suppose  I  can  be  of  use  for 
the  first  time!  You  wouldn't  say  to  me,  '  Don't  try! '  You 
couldn't  say  that?  " 

He  stood  holding  her  hands  and  looking  into  her  face  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  said,  half-humorously,  half-sadly: 

"  My  child,  perhaps  you  know  your  own  strength  best.  Per- 
haps your  safest  spiritual  director  is  your  own  heart.  Who 
knows?  But  whether  it  be  so  or  not  you  will  not  take  advice 
from  me." 

She  knew  that  was  true  now  and,  for  a  moment,  felt  almost 
ashamed. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  said.  "  But — it  is  strange,  and  may  seem 
to  you  ridiculous  or  even  wrong — ever  since  I  have  been  here  I 
have  felt  as  if  everything  that  happened  had  been  arranged 


234  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

beforehand,  as  if  it  had  to  happen.     And  I  feel  that,  too,  about 
the  future." 

"  Count  Anteoni's  fatalism!  "  the  priest  said  with  a  touch  of 
impatient  irritation.  "  I  know.  It  is  the  guiding  spirit  of  this 
land.  And  you  too  are  going  to  be  led  by  it.  Take  care !  You 
have  come  to  a  land  of  fire,  and  I  think  you  are  made  of 
fire." 

For  a  moment  she  saw  a  fanatical  expression  in  his  eyes.  She 
thought  of  it  as  the  look  of  the  monk  crushed  down  within  his 
soul.  He  opened  his  lips  again,  as  if  to  pour  forth  upon  her 
a  torrent  of  burning  words.  But  the  look  died  away,  and  they 
parted  quietly  like  two  good  friends.  Yet,  as  she  went  to  the 
hotel,  she  knew  that  Father  Roubier  could  not  give  her  the  kind 
of  help  she  wanted,  and  she  even  fancied  that  perhaps  no  priest 
could.  Her  heart  was  in  a  turmoil,  and  she  seemed  to  be  in  the 
midst  of  a  crowd. 

Batouch  was  at  the  door,  looking  elaborately  contrite  and 
ready  with  his  lie.  He  had  been  seized  with  fever  in  the  night, 
in  token  whereof  he  held  up  hands  which  began  to  shake  like 
wind-swept  leaves.  Only  now  had  he  been  able  to  drag  himself 
from  his  quilt  and,  still  afflicted  as  he  was,  to  creep  to  his 
honoured  patron  and  crave  her  pardon.  Domini  gave  it  with  an 
abstracted  carelessness  that  evidently  hurt  his  pride,  and  was 
passing  into  the  hotel  when  he  said : 

"  Irena  is  going  to  marry  Hadj,  Madame." 

Since  the  fracas  at  the  dancing-house  both  the  dancer  and  her 
victim  had  been  under  lock  and  key. 

'  To  marry  her  after  she  tried  to  kill  him !  "  said  Domini. 

"  Yes,  Madame.  He  loves  her  as  the  palm  tree  loves  the  sun. 
He  will  take  her  to  his  room,  and  she  will  wear  a  veil,  and  work 
for  him  and  never  go  out  any  more." 

"  What!     She  will  live  like  the  Arab  women?  " 

"  Of  course,  Madame.  But  there  is  a  very  nice  terrace  on 
the  roof  outside  Hadj's  room,  and  Hadj  will  permit  her  to  take 
the  air  there,  in  the  evening  or  when  it  is  hot." 

"She  must  love  Hadj  very  much." 

"  She  does,  or  why  should  she  try  to  kill  him  ?  " 

So  that  was  an  African  love — a  knife-thrust  and  a  taking  of 
the  veil !  The  thought  of  it  added  a  further  complication  to  the 
disorder  that  was  in  her  mind. 

"  I  will  see  you  after  dinner,  Batouch,"  she  said. 

She  felt  that  she  must  do  something,  go  somewhere  that 
nightv  She  could  not  remain  quiet. 


THE  GARDEN  235 

Batouch  drew  himself  up  and  threw  out  his  broad  chest.  His 
air  gave  place  to  importance,  and,  as  he  leaned  against  the  white 
pillar  of  the  arcade,  folded  his  ample  burnous  round  him,  and 
glanced  up  at  the  sky  he  saw,  in  fancy,  a  five-franc  piece  glitter- 
ing in  the  chariot  of  the  moon. 

The  priest  did  not  come  to  dinner  that  night,  but  Androvsky 
was  already  at  his  table  when  Domini  came  into  the  salle-a- 
manger.  He  got  up  from  his  seat  and  bowed  formally,  but  did 
not  speak.  Remembering  his  outburst  of  the  morning  she 
realised  the  suspicion  which  her  second  interview  with  the  priest 
had  probably  created  in  his  mind,  and  now  she  was  not  free  from 
a  feeling  of  discomfort  that  almost  resembled  guilt.  For  now 
she  had  been  led  to  discuss  Androvsky  with  Father  Roubier,  and 
had  it  not  been  almost  an  apology  when  she  said,  "  I  know  he  is 
not  evil  "  ?  Once  or  twice  during  dinner,  when  her  eyes  met 
Androvsky 's  for  a  moment,  she  imagined  that  he  must  know  why 
she  had  been  at  the  priest's  house,  that  anger  was  steadily  in- 
creasing in  him. 

He  was  a  man  who  hated  to  be  observed,  to  be  criticised. 
His  sensitiveness  was  altogether  abnormal,  and  made  her  wonder 
afresh  where  his  previous  life  had  been  passed.  It  must  surely 
have  been  a  very  sheltered  existence.  Contact  with  the  world 
blunts  the  fine  edge  of  our  feeling  with  regard  to  others'  opinion 
of  us.  In  the  world  men  learn  to  be  heedless  of  the  everlasting 
buzz  of  comment  that  attends  their  goings  out  and  their  comings 
in.  But  Androvsky  was  like  a  youth,  alive  to  the  tiniest  whisper, 
set  on  fire  by  a  glance.  To  such  a  nature  life  in  the  world  must 
be  perpetual  torture.  She  thought  of  him  with  a  sorrow  that — 
strangely  in  her — was  not  tinged  with  contempt.  That  which 
manifested  by  another  man  would  certainly  have  moved  her  to 
impatience,  if  not  to  wrath,  in  this  man  woke  other  sensations — 
curiosity,  pity,  terror. 

Yes — terror.  To-night  she  knew  that.  The  long  day,  begun 
in  the  semi-darkness  before  the  dawn  and  ending  in  the  semi- 
darkness  of  the  twilight,  had,  with  its  events  that  would  have 
seemed  to  another  ordinary  and  trivial  enough,  carried  her  for- 
ward a  stage  on  an  emotional  pilgrimage.  The  half-veiled  warn- 
ings of  Count  Anteoni  and  of  the  priest,  followed  by  the  latter's 
almost  passionately  abrupt  plain  speaking,  had  not  been  without 
effect.  To-night  something  of  Europe  and  her  life  there,  with 
its  civilised  experience  and  drastic  training  in  the  management  of 
woman's  relations  with  humanity  in  general,  crept  back  under 
the  palm  trees  and  the  brilliant  stars  of  Africa;  and  despite  the 


236  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

fatalism  condemned  by  Father  Roubier,  she  was  more  conscious 
than  she  had  hitherto  been  of  how  others — the  outside  world — 
would  be  likely  to  regard  her  acquaintance  with  Androvsky. 
She  stood,  as  it  were,  and  looked  on  at  the  events  in  which  she 
herself  had  been  and  was  involved,  and  in  that  moment  she  was 
first  aware  of  a  thrill  of  something  akin  to  terror,  as  if,  perhaps, 
without  knowing  it,  she  had  been  moving  amid  a  great  darkness, 
as  if  perhaps  a  great  darkness  were  approaching.  Suddenly  she 
saw  Androvsky  as  some  strange  and  ghastly  figure  of  legend ;  as 
the  wandering  Jew  met  by  a  traveller  at  cross  roads  and  distin- 
guished for  an  instant  in  an  oblique  lightning  flash ;  as  Vander- 
decken  passing  in  the  hurricane  and  throwing  a  blood-red  illu- 
mination from  the  sails  of  his  haunted  ship;  as  the  everlasting 
climber  of  the  Brocken,  as  the  shrouded  Arab  of  the  Eastern 
legend,  who  announced  coming  disaster  to  the  wanderers  in  the 
desert  by  beating  a  death-roll  on  a  drum  among  the  dunes. 

And  with  Count  Anteoni  and  the  priest  she  set  another  figure, 
that  of  the  sand  diviner,  whose  tortured  face  had  suggested  a 
man  looking  on  a  fate  that  was  terrible.  Had  not  he,  too, 
warned  her?  Had  not  the  warning  been  threefold,  been  given 
to  her  by  the  world,  the  Church,  and  the  under- wo  rid — the 
world  beneath  the  veil  ? 

She  met  Androvsky's  eyes.  He  was  getting  up  to  leave  the 
room.  His  movement  caught  her  away  from  things  visionary, 
but  not  from  worldly  things.  She  still  looked  on  herself  moving 
amid  these  events  at  which  her  world  would  laugh  or  wonder, 
and  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  uneasily  self- 
conscious  because  of  the  self  that  watched  herself,  as  if  that  self 
held  something  coldly  satirical  that  mocked  at  her  and  marvelled. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

"WHAT  shall  I  do  to-night?" 

Alone  in  the  now  empty  salle-a-manger  Domini  asked  herself 
the  question.  She  was  restless,  terribly  restless  in  mind,  and 
wanted  distraction.  The  idea  of  going  to  her  room,  of  reading, 
even  of  sitting  quietly  in  the  verandah,  was  intolerable  to  her. 
She  longed  for  action,  swiftness,  excitement,  the  help  of  outside 
things,  of  that  exterior  life  which  she  had  told  Count  Anteoni 
she  had  begun  to  see  as  a  mirage.  Had  she  been*  in  a  city  she 
would  have  gone  to  a  theatre  to  witness  some  tremendous  drama, 
or  to  hear  some  passionate  or  terrible  opera.  Beni-Mora  might 


THE  GARDEN  237 

have  been  a  place  of  many  and  strange  tragedies,  would  be  no 
doubt  again,  but  it  offered  at  this  moment  little  to  satisfy  her 
mood.  The  dances  of  the  Cafes  Maures,  the  songs  of  the 
smokers  of  the  keef ,  the  long  histories  of  the  story-tellers  between 
the  lighted  candles — she  wanted  none  of  these,  and,  for  a  mo- 
ment, she  wished  she  were  in  London,  Paris,  any  great  capital 
that  spent  itself  to  suit  the  changing  moods  of  men.  With  a 
sigh  she  got  up  and  went  out  to  the  Arcade.  Batouch  joined 
her  immediately. 

"  What  can  I  do  to-night,  Batouch?  "  she  said. 

"  There  are  the  femmes  mauresques,"  he  began. 

"  No,  no." 

"  Would  Madame  like  to  hear  the  story-teller?  " 

"  No.    I  should  not  understand  him." 

"  I  can  explain  to  Madame." 

"  No." 

She  stepped  out  into  the  road. 

"  There  will  be  a  moon  to-night,  won't  there  ?  "  she  said, 
looking  up  at  the  starry  sky. 

"  Yes,  Madame,  later." 

"What  time  will  it  rise?" 

"  Between  nine  and  ten." 

She  stood  in  the  road,  thinking.  It  had  occurred  to  her  that 
she  had  never  seen  moonrise  in  the  desert. 

"  And  now  it  is  " — she  looked  at  her  watch — "  only  eight." 

"  Does  Madame  wish  to  see  the  moon  come  up  pouring  upon 
the  palms " 

"  Don't  talk  so  much,  Batouch,"  she  said  brusquely. 

To-night  the  easy  and  luscious  imaginings  of  the  poet  worried 
her  like  the  cry  of  a  mosquito.  His  presence  even  disturbed 
her.  Yet  what  could  she  do  without  him?  After  a  pause  she 
said: 

"  Can  one  go  into  the  desert  at  night  ?  " 

"  On  foot,  Madame?  It  would  be  dangerous.  One  cannot 
tell  what  may  be  in  the  desert  by  night." 

These  words  made  her  long  to  go.  They  had  a  charm,  a 
violence  perhaps,  of  the  unknown. 

"  One  might  ride,"  she  said.  "  Why  not?  Who  could  hurt 
us  if  we  were  mounted  and  armed  ?  " 

"  Madame  is  brave  as  the  panther  in  the  forests  of  the 
Djurdjurah." 

"  And  you,  Batouch?     Aren't  you  brave?  " 

"  Madame,  I  am  afraid  of  nothing." 


236  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

fatalism  condemned  by  Father  Roubier,  she  was  more  conscious 
than  she  had  hitherto  been  of  how  others — the  outside  world — 
would  be  likely  to  regard  her  acquaintance  with  Androvsky. 
She  stood,  as  it  were,  and  looked  on  at  the  events  in  which  she 
herself  had  been  and  was  involved,  and  in  that  moment  she  was 
first  aware  of  a  thrill  of  something  akin  to  terror,  as  if,  perhaps, 
without  knowing  it,  she  had  been  moving  amid  a  great  darkness, 
as  if  perhaps  a  great  darkness  were  approaching.  Suddenly  she 
saw  Androvsky  as  some  strange  and  ghastly  figure  of  legend ;  as 
the  wandering  Jew  met  by  a  traveller  at  cross  roads  and  distin- 
guished for  an  instant  in  an  oblique  lightning  flash ;  as  Vander- 
decken  passing  in  the  hurricane  and  throwing  a  blood-red  illu- 
mination from  the  sails  of  his  haunted  ship;  as  the  everlasting 
climber  of  the  Brocken,  as  the  shrouded  Arab  of  the  Eastern 
legend,  who  announced  coming  disaster  to  the  wanderers  in  the 
desert  by  beating  a  death-roll  on  a  drum  among  the  dunes. 

And  with  Count  Anteoni  and  the  priest  she  set  another  figure, 
that  of  the  sand  diviner,  whose  tortured  face  had  suggested  a 
man  looking  on  a  fate  that  was  terrible.  Had  not  he,  too, 
warned  her?  Had  not  the  warning  been  threefold,  been  given 
to  her  by  the  world,  the  Church,  and  the  under-world — the 
world  beneath  the  veil  ? 

She  met  Androvsky's  eyes.  He  was  getting  up  to  leave  the 
room.  His  movement  caught  her  away  from  things  visionary, 
but  not  from  worldly  things.  She  still  looked  on  herself  moving 
amid  these  events  at  which  her  world  would  laugh  or  wonder, 
and  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  uneasily  self- 
conscious  because  of  the  self  that  watched  herself,  as  if  that  self 
held  something  coldly  satirical  that  mocked  at  her  and  marvelled. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

"WHAT  shall  I  do  to-night?" 

Alone  in  the  now  empty  salle-a-manger  Domini  asked  herself 
the  question.  She  was  restless,  terribly  restless  in  mind,  and 
wanted  distraction.  The  idea  of  going  to  her  room,  of  reading, 
even  of  sitting  quietly  in  the  verandah,  was  intolerable  to  her. 
She  longed  for  action,  swiftness,  excitement,  the  help  of  outside 
things,  of  that  exterior  life  which  she  had  told  Count  Anteoni 
she  had  begun  to  see  as  a  mirage.  Had  she  been'  in  a  city  she 
would  have  gone  to  a  theatre  to  witness  some  tremendous  drama, 
or  to  hear  some  passionate  or  terrible  opera.  Beni-Mora  might 


THE  GARDEN  237 

have  been  a  place  of  many  and  strange  tragedies,  would  be  no 
doubt  again,  but  it  offered  at  this  moment  little  to  satisfy  her 
mood.  The  dances  of  the  Cafes  Maures,  the  songs  of  the 
smokers  of  the  keef ,  the  long  histories  of  the  story-tellers  between 
the  lighted  candles — she  wanted  none  of  these,  and,  for  a  mo- 
ment, she  wished  she  were  in  London,  Paris,  any  great  capital 
that  spent  itself  to  suit  the  changing  moods  of  men.  With  a 
sigh  she  got  up  and  went  out  to  the  Arcade.  Batouch  joined 
her  immediately. 

"  What  can  I  do  to-night,  Batouch  ?  "  she  said. 

"  There  are  the  femmes  mauresques,"  he  began. 

"  No,  no." 

"  Would  Madame  like  to  hear  the  story-teller?  " 

"  No.    I  should  not  understand  him." 

"  I  can  explain  to  Madame." 

"  No." 

She  stepped  out  into  the  road. 

"There  will  be  a  moon  to-night,  won't  there?"  she  said, 
looking  up  at  the  starry  sky. 

"  Yes,  Madame,  later." 

"What  time  will  it  rise?" 

"  Between  nine  and  ten." 

She  stood  in  the  road,  thinking.  It  had  occurred  to  her  that 
she  had  never  seen  moonrise  in  the  desert. 

"  And  now  it  is  " — she  looked  at  her  watch — •"  only  eight." 

"  Does  Madame  wish  to  see  the  moon  come  up  pouring  upon 
the  palms " 

"  Don't  talk  so  much,  Batouch,"  she  said  brusquely. 

To-night  the  easy  and  luscious  imaginings  of  the  poet  worried 
her  like  the  cry  of  a  mosquito.  His  presence  even  disturbed 
her.  Yet  what  could  she  do  without  him?  After  a  pause  she 
said: 

"  Can  one  go  into  the  desert  at  night?  " 

"  On  foot,  Madame?  It  would  be  dangerous.  One  cannot 
tell  what  may  be  in  the  desert  by  night." 

These  words  made  her  long  to  go.  They  had  a  charm,  a 
violence  perhaps,  of  the  unknown. 

"  One  might  ride,"  she  said.  "  Why  not?  Who  could  hurt 
us  if  we  were  mounted  and  armed  ?  " 

"  Madame  is  brave  as  the  panther  in  the  forests  of  the 
Djurdjurah." 

"  And  you,  Batouch  ?     Aren't  you  brave  ?  " 

"  Madame,  I  am  afraid  of  nothing." 


238  THE  GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

He  did  not  say  it  boastfully,  like  Hadj,  but  calmly,  almost 
loftily. 

"  Well,  we  are  neither  of  us  afraid.  Let  us  ride  out  on  the 
Tombouctou  road  and  see  the  moon  rise.  I'll  go  and  put  on  my 
habit." 

"  Madame  should  take  her  revolver." 

"  Of  course.    Bring  the  horses  round  at  nine." 

When  she  had  put  on  her  habit  it  was  only  a  few  minutes 
after  eight.  She  longed  to  be  in  the  saddle,  going  at  full  speed 
up  the  long,  white  road  between  the  palms.  Physical  movement 
was  necessary  to  her,  and  she  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the 
verandah  quickly.  She  wished  she  had  ordered  the  horses  at 
once,  or  that  she  could  do  something  definite  to  fill  up  the  time 
till  they  came.  As  she  turned  at  the  end  of  the  verandah  she 
saw  a  white  form  approaching  her ;  when  it  drew  near  she  recog- 
nised Hadj,  looking  self-conscious  and  mischievous,  but  a  little 
triumphant  too.  At  this  moment  she  was  glad  to  see  him.  He 
received  her  congratulations  on  his  recovery  and  approaching 
marriage  with  a  sort  of  skittish  gaiety,  but  she  soon  discovered 
that  he  had  come  with  a  money-making  reason.  Having  seen  his 
cousin  safely  off  the  premises,  it  had  evidently  occurred  to  him 
to  turn  an  honest  penny.  And  pennies  were  now  specially 
needful  to  him  in  view  of  married  life. 

"  Does  Madame  wish  to  see  something  strange  and  wonderful 
to-night?  "  he  asked,  after  a  moment,  looking  at  her  sideways  out 
of  the  corners  of  his  wicked  eyes,  which,  as  Domini  could  see, 
were  swift  to  read  character  and  mood. 

"  I  am  going  out  riding." 

He  looked  astonished. 

"In  the  night?" 

"  Yes.     Batouch  has  gone  to  fetch  the  horses." 

Hadj's  face  became  a  mask  of  sulkiness. 

"  If  Madame  goes  out  with  Batouch  she  will  be  killed.  There 
are  robbers  in  the  desert,  and  Batouch  is  afraid  of " 

"  Could  we  see  the  strange  and  wonderful  thing  in  an  hour?  " 
she  interrupted. 

The  gay  and  skittish  expression  returned  instantly  to  his 
face. 

"  Yes,  Madame." 

"What  is  it?" 

He  shook  his  head  and  made  an  artful  gesture  with  his  hand 
in  the  air. 

"  Madame  shall  see." 


THE  GARDEN  239 

His  long  eyes  were  full  of  mystery,  and  he  moved  towards  the 
staircase. 

"  Come,  Madame." 

Domini  laughed  and  followed  him.  She  felt  as  if  she  were 
playing  a  game,  yet  her  curiosity  was  roused.  They  went  softly 
down  and  slipped  out  of  the  hotel  like  children  fearing  to  be 
caught. 

"  Batouch  will  be  angry.  There  will  be  white  foam  on  his 
lips,"  whispered  Hadj,  dropping  his  chin  and  chuckling  low  in 
his  throat.  "  This  way,  Madame." 

He  led  her  quickly  across  the  gardens  to  the  Rue  Berthe,  and 
down  a  number  of  small  streets,  till  they  reached  a  white  house 
before  which,  on  a  hump,  three  palm  trees  grew  from  one  trunk. 
Beyond  was  waste  ground,  and  further  away  a  stretch  of  sand 
and  low  dunes  lost  in  the  darkness  of  the,  as  yet,  moonless  night. 
Domini  looked  at  the  house  and  at  Hadj,  and  wondered  if  it 
would  be  foolish  to  enter. 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  asked  again. 

But  he  only  replied,  "  Madame  will  see!  "  and  struck  his  flat 
hand  upon  the  door.  It  was  opened  a  little  way,  and  a  broad 
face  covered  with  little  humps  and  dents  showed,  the  thick  lips 
parted  and  muttering  quickly.  Then  the  face  was  withdrawn, 
the  door  opened  wider,  and  Hadj  beckoned  to  Domini  to  go  in. 
After  a  moment's  hesitation  she  did  so,  and  found  herself  in  a 
small  interior  court,  with  a  tiled  floor,  pillars,  and  high  up  a 
gallery  of  carved  wood,  from  which,  doubtless,  dwelling- rooms 
opened.  In  the  court,  upon  cushions,  were  seated  four  vacant- 
looking  men,  with  bare  arms  and  legs  and  long  matted  hair, 
before  a  brazier,  from  which  rose  a  sharply  pungent  perfume. 
Two  of  these  men  were  very  young,  with  pale,  ascetic  faces  and 
weary  eyes.  They  looked  like  young  priests  of  the  Sahara.  At 
a  short  distance,  upon  a  red  pillow,  sat  a  tiny  boy  of  about  three 
years  old,  dressed  in  yellow  and  green.  When  Domini  and 
Hadj  came  into  the  court  no  one  looked  at  them  except  the  child, 
who  stared  with  slowly-rolling,  solemn  eyes,  slightly  shifting  on 
the  pillow.  Hadj  beckoned  to  Domini  to  seat  herself  upon  some 
rugs  between  the  pillars,  sat  down  beside  her  and  began  to  make 
a  cigarette.  Complete  silence  prevailed.  The  four  men  stared 
at  the  brazier,  holding  their  nostrils  over  the  incense  fumes  which 
rose  from  it  in  airy  spirals.  The  child  continued  to  stare  at 
Domini.  Hadj  lit  his  cigarette.  And  time  rolled  on. 

Domini  had  desired  violence,  and  had  been  conveyed  into  a 
dumbness  of  mystery,  that  fell  upon  her  turmoil  of  spirit  like  a 


24o  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

blow.  What  struck  her  as  especially  strange  and  unnatural  was 
the  fact  that  the  men  with  whom  she  was  sitting  in  the  dim  court 
of  this  lonely  house  had  not  looked  at  her,  did  not  appear  to 
know  that  she  was  there.  Hadj  had  caught  the  aroma  of  their 
meditations  with  the  perfume  of  the  incense,  for  his  eyes  had  lost 
their  mischief  and  become  gloomily  profound,  as  if  they  stared 
on  bygone  centuries  or  watched  a  far-off  future.  Even  the  child 
began  to  look  elderly,  and  worn  as  with  fastings  and  with  watch- 
ings.  As  the  fumes  perpetually  ascended  from  the  red-hot  coals 
of  the  brazier  the  sharp  smell  of  the  perfume  grew  stronger. 
There  was  in  it  something  provocative  and  exciting  that  was  like 
a  sound,  and  Domini  marvelled  that  the  four  men  who  crouched 
over  it  and  drank  it  in  perpetually  could  be  unaffected  by  its 
influence  when  she,  who  was  at  some  distance  from  it,  felt  dawn- 
ing on  her  desires  of  movement,  of  action,  almost  a  physical 
necessity  to  get  up  and  do  something  extraordinary,  absurd  or 
passionate,  such  as  she  had  never  done  or  dreamed  of  till  this 
moment. 

A  low  growl  like  that  of  a  wild  beast  broke  the  silence. 
Domini  did  not  know  at  first  whence  it  came.  She  stared  at  the 
four  men,  but  they  were  all  gazing  vacantly  into  the  brazier, 
their  naked  arms  dropping  to  the  floor.  She  glanced  at  Hadj. 
He  was  delicately  taking  a  cigarette  paper  from  a  little  case. 
The  child — no,  it  was  absurd  even  to  think  of  a  child  emitting 
such  a  sound. 

Someone  growled  again  more  fiercely,  and  this  time  Domini 
saw  that  it  was  the  palest  of  the  ascetic-looking  youths.  He 
shook  back  his  long  hair,  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  bound,  and 
moving  into  the  centre  of  the  court  gazed  ferociously  at  his  com- 
panions. As  if  in  obedience  to  the  glance,  two  of  them  stretched 
their  arms  backwards,  found  two  tom-toms,  and  began  to  beat 
them  loudly  and  monotonously.  The  young  ascetic  bowed  to 
the  tom-toms,  dropping  his  lower  jaw  and  jumping  on  his  bare 
feet.  He  bowed  again  as  if  saluting  a  fetish,  and  again  and 
again.  Ceaselessly  he  bowed  to  the  tom-toms,  always  jumping 
softly  from  the  pavement.  His  long  hair  fell  over  his  face  and 
back  upon  his  shoulders  with  a  monotonous  regularity  that 
imitated  the  tom-toms,  as  if  he  strove  to  mould  his  life  in  accord 
with  the  fetish  to  which  he  offered  adoration.  Flecks  of  foam 
appeared  upon  his  lips,  and  the  asceticism  in  his  eyes  changed 
to  a  bestial  glare.  His  whole  body  was  involved  in  a  long  and 
snake-like  undulation,  above  which  his  hair  flew  to  and  fro. 
Presently  the  second  youth,  moving  reverently  like  a  priest  about 


THE  GARDEN  241 

the  altar,  stole  to  a  corner  and  returned  with  a  large  and  curved 
sheet  of  glass.  Without  looking  at  Domini  he  came  to  her  and 
placed  it  in  her  hands.  When  the  dancer  saw  the  glass  he  stood 
still,  growled  again  long  and  furiously,  threw  himself  on  his 
knees  before  Domini,  licked  his  lips,  then,  abruptly  thrusting 
forward  his  face,  set  his  teeth  in  the  sheet  of  glass,  bit  a  large 
piece  off,  crunched  it  up  with  a  loud  noise,  swallowed  it  with  a 
gulp,  and  growled  for  more.  She  fed  him  again,  while  the  tom- 
toms went  on  roaring,  and  the  child  in  its  red  pillow  watched 
with  its  weary  eyes.  And  when  he  was  full  fed,  only  a  frag- 
ment of  glass  remained  between  her  fingers,  he  fell  upon  the 
ground  and  lay  like  one  in  a  trance. 

Then  the  second  youth  bowed  to  the  tom-toms,  leaping  gently 
on  the  pavement,  foamed  at  the  mouth,  growled,  snuffed  up  the 
incense  fumes,  shook  his  long  mane,  and  placed  his  naked  feet 
in  the  red-hot  coals  of  the  brazier.  He  plucked  out  a  coal  and 
rolled  his  tongue  round  it.  He  placed  red  coals  under  his  bare 
armpits  and  kept  them  there,  pressing  his  arms  against  his  sides. 
He  held  a  coal,  like  a  monocle,  in  his  eye  socket  against  his  eye. 
And  all  the  time  he  leaped  and  bowed  and  foamed,  undulating 
his  body  like  a  snake.  The  child  looked  on  with  a  still  gravity, 
and  the  tom-toms  never  ceased.  From  the  gallery  above  painted 
faces  peered  down,  but  Domini  did  not  see  them.  Her  attention 
was  taken  captive  by  the  young  priests  of  the  Sahara.  For  so 
she  called  them  in  her  mind,  realising  that  there  were  religious 
fanatics  whose  half-crazy  devotion  seemed  to  lift  them  above  the 
ordinary  dangers  to  the  body.  One  of  the  musicians  now  took 
his  turn,  throwing  his  tom-tom  to  the  eater  of  glass,  who  had 
wakened  from  his  trance.  He  bowed  and  leaped;  thrust  spikes 
behind  his  eyes,  through  his  cheeks,  his  lips,  his  arms;  drove  a 
long  nail  into  his  head  with  a  wooden  hammer;  stood  upon  the 
sharp  edge  of  an  upturned  sword  blade.  With  the  spikes  pro- 
truding from  his  face  in  all  directions,  and  his  eyes  bulging  out 
from  them  like  balls,  he  spun  in  a  maze  of  hair,  barking  like  a 
dog.  The  child  regarded  him  with  a  still  attention,  and  the 
incense  fumes  were  cloudy  in  the  court.  Then  the  last  of  the 
four  men  sprang  up  in  the  midst  of  a  more  passionate  uproar 
from  the  tom-toms.  He  wore  a  filthy  burnous,  and,  with  a 
shriek,  he  plunged  his  hand  into  its  hood  and  threw  some  squirm- 
ing things  upon  the  floor.  They  began  to  run,  rearing  stiff  tails 
into  the  air.  He  sank  down,  blew  upon  them,  caught  them, 
letting  them  set  their  tail  weapons  in  his  fingers,  and  lifting  them 
thus,  imbedded,  high  above  the  floor.  Then  again  he  put  them 


242  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

down,  breathed  upon  each  one,  drew  a  circle  round  each  with  his 
forefinger.  His  face  had  suddenly  become  intense,  hypnotic. 
The  scorpions,  as  if  mesmerised,  remained  utterly  still,  each  in 
its  place  within  its  imaginary  circle,  that  had  become  a  cage; 
and  their  master  bowed  to  the  fetish  of  the  tom-toms,  leaped, 
grinned,  and  bowed  again,  undulating  his  body  in  a  maze  of 
hair. 

Domini  felt  as  if  she,  like  the  scorpions,  had  been  mesmerised. 
She,  too,  was  surely  bound  in  a  circle,  breathed  upon  by  some 
arrogant  breath  of  fanaticism,  commanded  by  some  horrid  power. 
She  looked  at  the  scorpions  and  felt  a  sort  of  pity  for  them. 
From  time  to  time  the  bowing  fanatic  glanced  at  them  through 
his  hair  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  licked  his  lips,  shook  his 
shoulders,  and  uttered  a  long  howl,  thrilling  with  the  note  of 
greed.  The  tom-toms  pulsed  faster  and  faster,  louder  and 
louder,  and  all  the  men  began  to  sing  a  fierce  chant,  the  song 
surely  of  desert  souls  driven  crazy  by  religion.  One  of  the 
scorpions  moved  slightly,  reared  its  tail,  began  to  run.  Instantly, 
as  if  at  a  signal,  the  dancer  fell  upon  his  knees,  bent  down  his 
head,  seized  it  in  his  teeth,  munched  it  and  swallowed  it.  At 
the  same  moment  with  the  uproar  of  the  tom-toms  there  mingled 
a  loud  knocking  on  the  door. 

Hadj's  lips  curled  back  from  His  pointed  teeth  and  he  looked 
dangerous. 

"  It  is  Batouch !  "  he  snarled. 

Domini  got  up.  Without  a  word,  turning  her  back  upon  the 
court,  she  made  her  way  out,  still  hearing  the  howl  of  the 
scorpion-eater,  the  roar  of  the  tom-toms,  and  the  knocking 
on  the  door.  Hadj  followed  her  quickly,  protesting.  At 
the  door  was  the  man  with  the  pitted  white  face  and  the 
thick  lips.  When  he  saw  her  he  held  out  his  hand.  She 
gave  him  some  money,  he  opened  the  door,  and  she  came 
out  into  the  night  by  the  triple  palm  tree.  Batouch  stood 
there  looking  furious,  with  the  bridles  of  two  horses  across 
his  arm.  He  began  to  speak  in  Arabic  to  Hadj,  but  she 
stopped  him  with  an  imperious  gesture,  gave  Hadj  his  fee, 
and  in  a  moment  was  in  the  saddle  and  cantering  away  into 
the  dark.  She  heard  the  gallop  of  Batouch's  horse  coming  up 
behind  her  and  turned  her  head. 

"  Batouch,"  she  said,  "  you  are  the  smartest  " — she  used  the 
word  chic — "  Arab  here.  Do  you  know  what  is  the  fashion 
in  London  when  a  lady  rides  out  with  the  attendant  who  guards 
her — the  really  smart  thing  to  do  ?  " 


THE  GARDEN  243 

She  was  playing  on  his  vanity.  He  responded  with  a  ready 
smile. 

"  No,  Madame." 

"  The  attendant  rides  at  a  short  distance  behind  her,  so  that 
no  one  can  come  up  near  her  without  his  knowledge." 

Batouch  fell  back,  and  Domini  cantered  on,  congratulating 
herself  on  the  success  of  her  expedient. 

She  passed  through  the  village,  full  of  strolling  white  figures, 
lights  and  the  sound  of  music,  and  was  soon  at  the  end  of  the 
long,  straight  road  that  was  significant  to  her  as  no  other  road 
had  ever  been.  Each  time  she  saw  it,  stretching  on  till  it  was 
lost  in  the  serried  masses  of  the  palms,  her  imagination  was 
stirred  by  a  longing  to  wander  through  barbaric  lands,  by  a 
nomad  feeling  that  was  almost  irresistible.  This  road  was  a 
track  of  fate  to  her.  When  she  was  on  it  she  had  a  strange 
sensation  as  if  she  changed,  developed,  drew  near  to  some  ideal. 
It  influenced  her  as  one  person  may  influence  another.  Now 
for  the  first  time  she  was  on  it  in  the  night,  riding  on  the 
crowded  shadows  of  its  palms.  She  drew  rein  and  went  more 
slowly.  She  had  a  desire  to  be  noiseless. 

In  the  obscurity  the  thickets  of  the  palms  looked  more  exotic 
than  in  the  light  of  day.  There  was  no  motion  in  them.  Each 
tree  stood  like  a  delicately  carven  thing,  silhouetted  against  the 
remote  purple  of  the  void.  In  the  profound  firmament  the 
stars  burned  with  a  tremulous  ardour  they  never  show  in  north- 
ern skies.  The  mystery  of  this  African  night  rose  not  from 
vaporous  veils  and  the  long  movement  of  winds,  but  was 
breathed  out  by  clearness,  brightness,  stillness.  It  was  the 
deepest  of  all  mystery — the  mystery  of  vastness  and  of  peace. 

No  one  was  on  the  road.  The  sound  of  the  horse's  feet  were 
sharply  distinct  in  the  night.  On  all  sides,  but  far  off,  the 
guard  dogs  were  barking  by  the  hidden  homes  of  men.  The 
air  was  warm  as  in  a  hothouse,  but  light  and  faintly  impreg- 
nated with  perfume  shed  surely  by  the  mystical  garments  of 
night  as  she  glided  on  with  Domini  towards  the  desert.  From 
the  blackness  of  the  palms  there  came  sometimes  thin  notes  of 
the  birds  of  night,  the  whizzing  noise  of  insects,  the  glassy  pipe 
of  a  frog  in  the  reeds  by  a  pool  behind  a  hot  brown  wall. 

She  rode  through  one  of  the  villages  of  old  Beni-Mora,  silent, 
unlighted,  with  empty  streets  and  closed  cafes  maures,  touched 
her  horse  with  the  whip,  and  cantered  on  at  a  quicker  pace.  As 
she  drew  near  to  the  desert  her  desire  to  be  in  it  increased. 
There  was  some  coarse  grass  here.  The  palm  trees  grew  less 


244  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

thickly.  She  heard  more  clearly  the  barking  of  the  Kabyle 
dogs,  and  knew  that  tents  were  not  far  off.  Now,  between  the 
trunks  of  the  trees,  she  saw  the  twinkling  of  distant  fires,  and 
the  sound  of  running  water  fell  on  her  ears,  mingling  with  the 
persistent  noise  of  the  insects,  and  the  faint  cries  of  the  birds 
and  frogs.  In  front,  where  the  road  came  out  from  the  shadows 
of  the  last  trees,  lay  a  vast  dimness,  not  wholly  unlike  another 
starless  sky,  stretched  beneath  the  starry  sky  in  which  the  moon 
had  not  yet  risen.  She  set  her  horse  at  a  gallop  and  came  into 
the  desert,  rushing  through  the  dark. 

"Madame!  Madame!" 

Batouch's  voice  was  calling  her.  She  galloped  faster,  like  one 
in  flight.  Her  horse's  feet  padded  over  sand  almost  as  softly  as 
a  camel's.  The  vast  dimness  was  surely  coming  to  meet  her,  to 
take  her  to  itself  in  the  night.  But  suddenly  Batouch  rode 
furiously  up  beside  her,  his  burnous  flying  out  behind  him  over 
his  red  saddle. 

"  Madame,  we  must  not  go  further,  we  must  keep  near  the 
oasis." 

"Why?" 

"  It  is  not  safe  at  night  in  the  desert,  and  besides " 

His  horse  plunged  and  nearly  rocketed  against  hers.  She 
pulled  in.  His  company  took  away  her  desire  to  keep  on. 

"Besides?" 

Leaning  over  his  saddle  peak  he  said,  mysteriously: 

"  Besides,  Madame,  someone  has  been  following  us  all  the 
way  from  Beni-Mora." 

"Who?" 

"A  horseman.  I  have  heard  the  beat  of  the  hoofs  on  the 
hard  road.  Once  I  stopped  and  turned,  but  I  could  see  nothing, 
and  then  I  could  hear  nothing.  He,  too,  had  stopped.  But 
when  I  rode  on  again  soon  I  heard  him  once  more.  Someone 
found  out  we  were  going  and  has  come  after  us." 

She  looked  back  into  the  violet  night  without  speaking.  She 
heard  no  sound  of  a  horse,  saw  nothing  but  the  dim  track  and 
the  faint,  shadowy  blackness  where  the  palms  began.  Then  she 
put  her  hand  into  the  pocket  of  her  saddle  and  silently  held  up  a 
tiny  revolver. 

"  I  know,  but  there  might  be  more  than  one.  I  am  not 
afraid,  but  if  anything  happens  to  Madame  no  one  will  ever  take 
me  as  a  guide  any  more." 

She  smiled  for  a  moment,  but  the  smile  died  away,  and  again 
she  looked  into  the  night.  She  was  not  afraid  physically,  but 


THE  GARDEN  245 

• 

she  was  conscious  of  a  certain  uneasiness.  The  day  had  been 
long  and  troubled,  and  had  left  its  mark  upon  her.  Restlessness 
had  driven  her  forth  into  the  darkness,  and  behind  the  restless- 
ness there  was  a  hint  of  the  terror  of  which  she  had  been  aware 
when  she  was  left  alone  in  the  salle-a-manger.  Was  it  not  that 
vague  terror  which,  shaking  the  restlessness,  had  sent  her  to  the 
white  house  by  the  triple  palm  tree,  had  brought  her  now  to  the 
desert?  she  asked  herself,  while  she  listened,  and  the  hidden 
horseman  of  whom  Batouch  had  spoken  became  in  her  imagina- 
tion one  with  the  legendary  victims  of  fate ;  with  the  Jew  by  the 
cross  roads,  the  mariner  beating  ever  about  the  rock-bound 
shores  of  the  world,  the  climber  in  the  witches'  Sabbath,  the 
phantom  Arab  in  the  sand.  Still  holding  her  revolver,  she 
turned  her  horse  and  rode  slowly  towards  the  distant  fires,  from 
which  came  the  barking  of  the  dogs.  At  some  hundreds  of  yards 
from  them  she  paused. 

"  I  shall  stay  here,"  she  said  to  Batouch.  "  Where  does  the 
moon  rise  ?  " 

He  stretched  his  arm  towards  the  desert,  which  sloped  gently, 
almost  imperceptibly,  towards  the  east. 

"  Ride  back  a  little  way  towards  the  oasis.  The  horseman 
was  behind  us.  If  he  is  still  following  you  will  meet  him. 
Don't  go  far.  Do  as  I  tell  you,  Batouch." 

With  obvious  reluctance  he  obeyed  her.  She  saw  him  pull 
up  his  horse  at  a  distance  where  he  had  her  just  in  sight.  Then 
she  turned  so  that  she  could  not  see  him  and  looked  towards  the 
desert  and  the  east.  The  revolver  seemed  unnaturally  heavy  in 
her  hand.  She  glanced  at  it  for  a  moment  and  listened  with 
intensity  for  the  beat  of  horse's  hoofs,  and  her  wakeful  imagina- 
tion created  a  sound  that  was  non-existent  in  her  ears.  With  it 
she  heard  a  gallop  that  was  spectral  as  the  gallop  of  the  black 
horses  which  carried  Mephistopheles  and  Faust  to  the  abyss.  It 
died  away  almost  at  once,  and  she  knew  it  for  an  imagination. 
To-night  she  was  peopling  the  desert  with  phantoms.  Even  the 
fires  of  the  nomads  were  as  the  fires  that  flicker  in  an  abode  of 
witches,  the  shadows  that  passed  before  them  were  as  goblins 
that  had  come  up  out  of  the  sand  to  hold  revel  in  the  moonlight. 
Were  they,  too,  waiting  for  a  signal  from  the  sky? 

At  the  thought  of  the  moon  she  drew  up  the  reins  that  had 
been  lying  loosely  on  her  horse's  neck  and  rode  some  paces 
forward  and  away  from  the  fires,  still  holding  the  revolver  in  her 
hand.  Of  what  use  would  it  be  against  the  spectres  of  the 
Sahara?  The  Jew  would  face  it  without  fear.  Why  not  the 


246  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

horseman  of  Batouch?  She  dropped  it  into  the  pocket  of  the 
saddle. 

Far  away  in  the  east  the  darkness  of  the  sky  was  slowly 
fading  into  a  luminous  mystery  that  rose  from  the  underworld,  a 
mystery  that  at  first  was  faint  and  tremulous,  pale  with  a  pallor 
of  silver  and  primrose,  but  that  deepened  slowly  into  a  live  and 
ardent  gold  against  which  a  group  of  three  palm  trees  detached 
themselves  from  the  desert  like  messengers  sent  forth  by  it  to 
give  a  salutation  to  the  moon.  They  were  jet  black  against  the 
gold,  distinct  though  very  distant.  The  night,  and  the  vast  plain 
from  which  they  rose,  lent  them  a  significance  that  was  un- 
earthly. Their  long,  thin  stems  and  drooping,  feathery  leaves 
were  living  and  pathetic  as  the  night  thoughts  of  a  woman  who 
has  suffered,  but  who  turns,  with  a  gesture  of  longing  that 
will  not  be  denied,  to  the  luminance  that  dwells  at  the  heart  of 
the  world.  And  those  black  palms  against  the  gold,  that  still- 
ness of  darkness  and  light  in  immensity,  banished  Domini's  faint 
sense  of  horror.  The  spectres  faded  away.  Che  fixed  her  eyes 
on  the  palms. 

Now  all  the  notes  of  the  living  things  thai:  do  not  sleep  by 
night,  but  make  music  by  reedy  pools,  in  underwood,  among  the 
blades  of  grass  and  along  the  banks  of  streams,  were  audible  to 
her  again,  filling  her  mind  with  the  mystery  of  existence.  The 
glassy  note  of  the  frogs  was  like  a  falling  of  something  small  and 
pointed  upon  a  sheet  of  crystal.  The  \vhirs  of  the  insects 
suggested  a  ceaselessly  active  mentality.  The  faint  cries  of  the 
birds  dropped  down  like  jewels  slipping  from  the  trees.  And 
suddenly  she  felt  that  she  was  as  nothing  in  the  vastness  and  the 
complication  of  the  night.  Even  the  passion  that  she  knew  lay, 
like  a  dark  and  silent  flood,  within  her  soul,  a  flood  that,  once 
released  from  its  boundaries,  had  surely  the  power  to  rush 
irresistibly  forward  to  submerge  old  landmarks  and  change  the 
face  of  a  world — even  that  seemed  to  lose  its  depth  for  a  moment, 
to  be  shallow  as  the  first  ripple  of  a  tide  upon  the  sand.  And 
she  forgot  that  the  first  ripple  has  all  the  ocean  behind  it. 

Red  deepened  and  glowed  in  the  gold  beiiind  the  three 
palms,  and  the  upper  rim  of  the  round  moon,  red  too  as  blood, 
crept  about  the  desert.  Domini,  leaning  forward  with  one  hand 
upon  her  horse's  warm  neck,  watched  until  the  full  circle  was 
poised  for  a  moment  on  the  horizon,  holding  the  palms  in  its 
frame  of  fire.  She  had  never  seen  a  moon  look  so  immense  and 
so  vivid  as  this  moon  that  came  up  into  the  night  like  a  portent, 
fierce  yet  serene,  moon  of  a  barbaric  world,  such  as  might  have 


THE  GARDEN  247 

shone  upon  Herod  when  he  heard  the  voice  of  the  Baptist  in  his 
dungeon,  or  upon  the  wife  of  Pilate  when  in  a  dream  she  was 
troubled.  It  suggested  to  her  the  powerful  watcher  of  tragic 
events  fraught  with  long  chains  of  consequence  that  would  last 
on  through  centuries,  as  it  turned  its  blood-red  gaze  upon  the 
desert,  upon  the  palms,  upon  her,  and,  leaning  upon  her  horse's 
neck,  she  too — like  Pilate's  wife — fell  into  a  sort  of  strange  and 
troubled  dream  for  a  moment,  full  of  strong,  yet  ghastly,  light 
and  of  shapes  that  flitted  across  a  background  of  fire. 

In  it  she  saw  the  priest  with  a  fanatical  look  of  warning  in  his 
eyes,  Count  Anteoni  beneath  the  trees  of  his  garden,  the  per- 
fume-seller in  his  dark  bazaar,  Irena  with  her  long  throat 
exposed  and  her  thin  arms  drooping,  the  sand  diviner  spreading 
forth  his  hands,  Androvsky  galloping  upon  a  horse  as  if  pursued. 
This  last  vision  returned  again  and  again.  As  the  moon  rose  a 
stream  of  light  that  seemed  tragic  fell  across  the  desert  and  was 
woven  mysteriously  into  the  light  of  her  waking  dream.  'The 
three  palms  looked  larger.  She  fancied  that  she  saw  them 
growing,  becoming  monstrous  as  they  stood  in  the  very  centre  of 
the  path  of  the  nocturnal  glory,  and  suddenly  she  remembered 
her  thought  when  she  sat  with  Androvsky  in  the  garden,  that 
feeling  grew  in  human  hearts  like  palms  rising  in  the  desert. 
But  these  palms  were  tragic  and  aspired  towards  the  blood-red 
moon.  Suddenly  she  was  seized  with  a  fear  of  feeling,  of  the 
growth  of  an  intense  sensation  within  her,  and  realised,  with  an 
almost  feverish  vividness,  the  impotence  of  a  soul  caught  in  the 
grip  of  a  great  passion,  swayed  hither  and  thither,  led  into 
strange  paths,  along  the  edges,  perhaps  into  depths  of  im- 
measurable abysses.  She  had  said  to  Androvsky  that  she  would 
rather  be  the  centre  of  a  world  tragedy  than  die  without 
having  felt  to  the  uttermost  even  if  it  were  sorrow.  Was  that 
not  the  speech  of  a  mad  woman,  or  at  least  of  a  woman  who  was 
so  ignorant  of  the  life  of  feeling  that  her  words  were  idle  and 
ridiculous?  Again  she  felt  desperately  that  she  did  not  know 
herself,  and  this  lack  of  the  most  essential  of  all  knowledge 
reduced  her  for  a  moment  to  a  bitterness  of  despair  that  seemed 
worse  than  the  bitterness  of  death.  The  vastness  of  the  desert 
appalled  her.  The  red  moon  held  within  its  circle  all  the  blood 
of  the  martyrs,  of  life,  of  ideals.  She  shivered  in  the  saddle. 
Her  nature  seemed  to  shrink  and  quiver,  and  a  cry  for  protection 
rose  within  her,  the  cry  of  the  woman  who  cannot  face  life  alone, 
who  must  find  a  protector,  and  who  must  cling  to  a  strong  arm, 
who  needs  man  as  the  world  needs  God. 


248  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

Then  again  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  saw  Androvsky  galloping 
upon  a  horse  as  if  pursued. 

Moved  by  a  desire  to  do  something  to  combat  this  strange 
despair,  born  of  the  moonrise  and  the  night,  she  sat  erect  in  her 
saddle,  and  resolutely  looked  at  the  desert,  striving  to  get  away 
from  herself  in  a  hard  contemplation  of  the  details  that  sur- 
rounded her,  the  outward  things  that  were  coming  each  moment 
into  clearer  view.  She  gazed  steadily  towards  the  palms  that 
sharply  cut  the  moonlight.  As  she  did  so  something  black 
moved  away  from  them,  as  if  it  had  been  part  of  them  and  now 
detached  itself  with  the  intention  of  approaching  her  along  the 
track.  At  -first  it  was  merely  a  moving  blot,  formless  and  small, 
but  as  it  drew  nearer  she  saw  that  it  was  a  horseman  riding 
slowly,  perhaps  stealthily,  across  the  sand.  She  glanced  be- 
hind her,  and  saw  Batouch  not  far  off,  and  the  fires  of  the 
nomads.  Then  she  turned  again  to  watch  the  horseman.  He 
came  steadily  forward. 

"Madame!" 

It  was  the  voice  of  Batouch. 

"  Stay  where  you  are !  "  she  called  out  to  him. 

She  heard  the  soft  sound  of  the  horse's  feet  and  could  see  the 
attitude  of  its  rider.  He  was  leaning  forward  as  if  searching 
the  night.  She  rode  to  meet  him,  and  they  came  to  each  other  in 
the  path  of  the  light  she  had  thought  tragic. 

"You  followed  me?" 

"  I  cannot  see  you  go  out  alone  into  the  desert  at  night," 
Androvsky  replied. 

"  But  you  have  no  right  to  follow  me." 

"  I  cannot  let  harm  come  to  you,  Madame." 

She  was  silent.  A  moment  before  she  had  been  longing  for  a 
protector.  One  had  come  to  her,  the  man  whom  she  had  been 
setting  with  those  legendary  figures  who  have  saddened  and 
appalled  the  imagination  of  men.  She  looked  at  the  dark  figure 
of  Androvsky  leaning  forward  on  the  horse  whose  feet  were  set 
on  the  path  of  the  moon,  and  she  did  not  know  whether  she  felt 
confidence  in  him  or  fear  of  him.  All  that  the  priest  had  said 
rose  up  in  her  mind,  all  that  Count  Anteoni  had  hinted  and  that 
had  been  visible  in  the  face  of  the  sand  diviner.  This  man  had 
followed  her  into  the  night  as  a  guardian.  Did  she  need  some- 
one, something,  to  guard  her  from  him?  A  faint  horror  was 
still  upon  her.  Perhaps  he  knew  it  and  resented  it,  for  he 
drew  himself  upright  on  his  horse  and  spoke  again,  with  a 
decision  that  was  rare  in  him. 


THE  GARDEN  249 

"  Let  me  send  Batouch  back  to  Beni-Mora,  Madame." 

"  Why?  "  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice  that  was  full  of  hesita- 
tion. 

"  You  do  not  need  him  now." 

He  was  looking  at  her  with  a  defiant,  a  challenging  expression 
that  was  his  answer  to  her  expression  of  vague  distrust  and 
apprehension. 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  " 

He  did  not  answer  the  question,  but  only  said : 

"  It  is  better  here  without  him.  May  I  send  him  away, 
Madame?  " 

She  bent  her  head.  Androvsky  rode  off  and  she  saw  him 
speaking  to  Batouch,  who  shook  his  head  as  if  in  contradiction. 

"  Batouch !  "  she  called  out.  "  You  can  ride  back  to  Beni- 
"Mora.  We  shall  follow  directly." 

The  poet  cantered  forward. 

"  Madame,  it  is  not  safe." 

The  sound  of  his  voice  made  Domini  suddenly  know  what 
she  had  not  been  sure  of  before — that  she  wished  to  be  alone 
with  Androvsky. 

"  Go,  Batouch !  "  she  said.     "  I  tell  you  to  go." 

Batouch  turned  his  horse  without  a  word,  and  disappeared 
into  the  darkness  of  the  distant  palms. 

When  they  were  alone  together  Domini  and  Androvsky  sat 
silent  on  their  horses  for  some  minutes.  Their  faces  were  turned 
towards  the  desert,  which  was  now  luminous  beneath  the  moon. 
Its  loneliness  was  overpowering  in  the  night,  and  made  speech 
at  first  an  impossibility,  and  even  thought  difficult.  At  last 
Androvsky  said : 

"  Madame,  why  did  you  look  at  me  like  that  just  now,  as  if 
you — as  if  you  hesitated  to  remain  alone  with  me?  " 

Suddenly  she  resolved  to  tell  him  of  her  oppression  of  the 
night.  She  felt  as  if  to  do  so  would  relieve  her  of  something 
that  was  like  a  pain  at  her  heart. 

"  Has  it  never  occurred  to  you  that  we  are  strangers  to  each 
other?"  she  said.  "That  we  know  nothing  of  each  other's 
lives  ?  What  do  you  know  of  me  or  I  of  you  ?  " 

He  shifted  in  his  saddle  and  moved  the  reins  from  one  hand 
to  the  other,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Would  it  seem  strange   to  you  if  I  did  hesitate — if  even 


Yes,"  he  interrupted  violently,  "  it  would  seem  strange  to 


25o  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"Why?" 

"  You  would  rely  on  an  Arab  and  not  rely  upon  me,"  he  said 
with  intense  bitterness. 

"  I  did  not  say  so." 

"  Yet  at  first  you  wished  to  keep  Batouch." 

"  Yes." 

"-Then " 

"  Batouch  is  my  attendant." 

"  And  I  ?  Perhaps  I  am  nothing  but  a  man  whom  you  dis- 
trust; whom — whom  others  tell  you  to  think  ill  of." 

"  I  judge  for  myself." 

"  But  if  others  speak  ill  of  me  ?  " 

"  It  would  not  influence  me — for  long." 

She  added  the  last  words  after  a  pause.  She  wished  to  be 
strictly  truthful,  and  to-night  she  was  not  sure  that  the  words  of 
the  priest  had  made  no  impression  upon  her. 

"For  long!"  he  repeated.  Then  he  said  abruptly,  "The 
priest  hates  me." 

"  No." 

"  And  Count  Anteoni?  " 

"  You  interested  Count  Anteoni  greatly." 

"Interested  him!" 

His  voice  sounded  intensely  suspicious  in  the  night. 

"  Don't  you  wish  to  interest  anyone?  It  seems  to  me  that 
to  be  uninteresting  is  to  live  eternally  alone  in  a  sunless 
desert." 

"  I  wish — I  should  like  to  think  that  I "    He  stopped, 

then  said,  with  a  sort  of  ashamed  determination :     "  Could  I 
ever  interest  you,  Madame?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  quietly. 

"  But  you  would  rather  be  protected  by  an  Arab  than  by  me. 
The  priest  has " 

"  To-night  I  do  not  seem  to  be  myself,"  she  said,  interrupting 
him.  "  Perhaps  there  is  some  physical  reason.  I  got  up  very 
early,  and — don't  you  ever  feel  oppressed,  suspicious,  doubtful 
of  life,  people,  yourself,  everything,  without  apparent  rea- 
son? Don't  you  know  what  it  is  to  have  nightmare  without 
sleeping?  " 

"  I !     But  you  are  different." 

"  To-night  I  have  felt — I  do  feel  as  if  there  were  tragedy  near 
me,  perhaps  coming  towards  me,"  she  said  simply,  "  and  I  am 
oppressed,  I  am  almost  afraid." 

When  she  had  said  it  she  felt  happier,  as  if  a  burden  she 


THE  GARDEN  251 

carried  were  suddenly  lighter.  As  he  did  not  speak  she  glanced 
at  him.  The  moon  rays  lit  up  his  face.  It  looked  ghastly, 
drawn  and  old,  so  changed  that  she  scarcely  recognised  it  and 
felt,  for  a  moment,  as  if  she  were  with  a  stranger.  She  looked 
away  quickly,  wondering  if  what  she  had  seen  was  merely  some 
strange  effect  of  the  moon,  or  whether  Androvsky  was  really 
altered  for  a  moment  by  the  action  of  some  terrible  grief,  one 
of  those  sudden  sorrows  that  rush  upon  a  man  from  the  hidden 
depths  of  his  nature  and  tear  his  soul,  till  his  whole  being  is 
lacerated  and  he  feels  as  if  his  soul  were  flesh  and  were  streaming 
with  the  blood  from  mortal  wounds.  The  silence  between  them 
was  long.  In  it  she  presently  heard  a  reiterated  noise  that 
sounded  like  struggle  and  pain  made  audible.  It  was  Androv- 
sky's  breathing.  In  the  soft  and  exquisite  air  of  the  desert  he 
was  gasping  like  a  man  shut  up  in  a  cellar.  She  looked  again 
towards  him,  startled.  As  she  did  so  he  turned  his  horse  side- 
ways and  rode  away  a  few  paces.  Then  he  pulled  up  his  horse. 
He  was  now  merely  a  black  shape  upon  the  moonlight,  motion- 
less and  inaudible.  She  could  not  take  her  eyes  from  this 
shape.  Its  blackness  suggested  to  her  the  blackness  of  a  gulf. 
Her  memory  still  heard  that  sound  of  deep-drawn  breathing  or 
gasping,  heard  it  and  quivered  beneath  it  as  a  tender-hearted 
person  quivers  seeing  a  helpless  creature  being  ill-used.  She 
hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then,  carried  away  by  an  irresistible 
impulse  to  try  to  soothe  this  extremity  of  pain  which  she  was 
unable  to  understand,  she  rode  up  to  Androvsky.  When  she 
reached  him  she  did  not  know  what  she  had  meant  to  say  or  do. 
She  felt  suddenly  impotent  and  intrusive,  and  even  horribly 
shy.  But  before  she  had  time  for  speech  or  action  he  turned 
to  her  and  said,  lifting  up  his  hands  with  the  reins  in  them  and 
then  dropping  them  down  heavily  upon  his  horse's  neck; 

"  Madame,  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  to-morrow  I "  He 

stopped. 

"Yes?"  she  said. 

He  turned  his  head  away  from  her  till  she  could  not  see 
his  face. 

"  To-morrow  I  am  leaving  Beni-Mora." 

"  To-morrow !  "  she  said. 

She  did  not  feel  the  horse  under  her,  the  reins  in  her  hand. 
She  did  not  see  the  desert 'or  the  moon.  Though  she  was  look- 
ing at  Androvsky  she  no  longer  perceived  him.  At  the  sound  of 
his  words  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  all  outside  things  she  had  ever 
known  had  foundered,  like  a  ship  whose  bottom  is  ripped  up  by 


252  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

a  razor-edged  rock,  as  if  with  them  had  foundered,  too,  all  things 
within  herself:  thoughts,  feelings,  even  the  bodily  powers  that 
were  of  the  essence  of  her  life;  sense  of  taste,  smell,  hearing, 
sight,  the  capacity  of  movement  and  of  deliberate  repose. 
Nothing  seemed  to  remain  except  the  knowledge  that  she  was 
still  alive  and  had  spoken. 

"  Yes,  to-morrow  I  shall  go  away." 

His  face  was  still  turned  from  her,  and  his  voice  sounded  as 
if  it  spoke  to  someone  at  a  distance,  someone  who  could  hear  as 
man  cannot  hear. 

"  To-morrow,"  she  repeated. 

She  knew  she  had  spoken  again,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  her  as 
if  she  had  heard  herself  speak.  She  looked  at  her  hands  holding 
the  reins,  knew  that  she  looked  at  them,  yet  felt  as  if  she  were 
not  seeing  them  while  she  did  so.  The  moonlit  desert  was  surely 
flickering  round  her,  and  away  to  the  horizon  in  waves  that  were 
caused  by  the  disappearance  of  that  ship  which  had  suddenly 
foundered  with  all  its  countless  lives.  And  she  knew  of  the 
movement  of  these  waves  as  the  soul  of  one  of  the  drowned, 
already  released  from  the  body,  might  know  of  the  movement  on 
the  surface  of  the  sea  beneath  which  its  body  was  hidden. 

But  the  soul  was  evidently  nothing  without  the  body,  or,  at 
most,  merely  a  continuance  of  power  to  know  that  all  which 
had  been  was  no  more.  All  which  had  been  was  no  more. 

At  last  her  mind  began  to  work  again,  and  those  words  went 
through  it  with  persistence.  She  thought  of  the  fascination  of 
Africa,  that  enormous,  overpowering  fascination  which  had  taken 
possession  of  her  body  and  spirit.  What  had  become  of  it? 
What  had  become  of  the  romance  of  the  palm  gardens,  of  the 
brown  villages,  of  the  red  mountains,  of  the  white  town  with  its 
lights,  its  white  figures,  its  throbbing  music  ?  And  the  mystical 
attraction  of  the  desert — where  was  it  now  ?  Its  voice,  that  had 
called  her  persistently,  was  suddenly  silent.  Its  hand,  that  had 
been  laid  upon  her,  was  removed.  She  looked  at  it  in  the  moon- 
light and  it  was  no  longer  the  desert,  sand  with  a  soul  in  it,  blue 
distances  full  of  a  music  of  summons,  spaces,  peopled  with  spirits 
from  the  sun.  It  was  only  a  barren  waste  of  dried-up  matter, 
arid,  featureless,  desolate,  ghastly  with  the  bones  of  things  that 
had  died. 

She  heard  the  dogs  barking  by  the  tents  of  the  nomads  and 
the  noises  of  the  insects,  but  still  she  did  not  feel  the  horse  under- 
neath her.  Yet  she  was  gradually  recovering  her  powers,  and 
their  recovery  brought  with  it  sharp,  physical  pain,  such  as  is 


THE  GARDEN  253 

felt  by  a  person  who  has  been  nearly  drowned  and  is  restored 
from  unconsciousness. 

Androvsky  turned  round.  She  saw  his  eyes  fastened  upon 
her,  and  instantly  pride  awoke  in  her,  and,  with  pride,  her  whole 
self. 

She  felt  her  horse  under  her,  the  reins  in  her  hands,  the 
stirrup  at  her  foot.  She  moved  in  her  saddle.  The  blood 
tingled  in  her  veins  fiercely,  bitterly,  as  if  it  had  become  sud- 
denly acrid.  She  felt  as  if  her  face  were  scarlet,  as  if  her 
whole  body  flushed,  and  as  if  the  flush  could  be  seen  by  her 
companion.  For  a  moment  she  was  clothed  from  head  to  foot 
in  a  fiery  garment  of  shame.  But  she  faced  Androvsky  with 
calm  eyes,  and  her  lips  smiled. 

"  You  are  tired  of  it  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  never  meant  to  stay  long,"  he  answered,  looking  down. 

"  There  is  not  very  much  to  do  here.  Shall  we  ride  back  to 
the  village  now  ?  " 

She  turned  her  horse,  and  as  she  did  so  cast  one  more  glance 
at  the  three  palm  trees  that  stood  far  out  on  the  path  of  the 
moon.  They  looked  like  three  malignant  fates  lifting  up  their 
hands  in  malediction.  For  a  moment  she  shivered  in  the  saddle. 
Then  she  touched  her  horse  with  the  whip  and  turned  her 
eyes  away.  Androvsky  followed  her  and  rode  by  her  side  in 
silence. 

To  gain  the  oasis  they  passed  near  to  the  tents  of  the  nomads, 
whose  fires  were  dying  out.  The  guard  dogs  were  barking 
furiously,  and  straining  at  the  cords  which  fastened  them  to  the 
tent  pegs,  by  the  short  hedges  of  brushwood  that  sheltered  the 
doors  of  filthy  rags.  The  Arabs  were  all  within,  no  doubt  hud- 
dled up  on  the  ground  asleep.  One  tent  was  pitched  alone, 
at  a  considerable  distance  from  the  others,  and  under  the  first 
palms  of  the  oasis.  A  fire  smouldered  before  it,  casting  a  flicker- 
ing gleam  of  light  upon  something  dark  which  lay  upon  the 
ground  between  it  and  the  tent.  Tied  to  the  tent  was  a  large 
white  dog,  which  was  not  barking,  but  which  was  howling  as 
if  in  agony  of  fear.  Before  Domini  and  Androvsky  drew  near 
to  this  tent  the  howling  of  the  dog  reached  them  and  startled 
them.  There  was  in  it  a  note  that  seemed  humanly  expressive, 
as  if  it  were  a  person  trying  to  scream  out  words  but  unable 
to  from  horror.  Both  of  them  instinctively  pulled  up  their 
horses,  listened,  then  rode  forward.  When  they  reached  the  tent 
they  saw  the  dark  thing  lying  by  the  fire. 

"  What  is  it?  "  Domini  whispered. 


254  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  An  Arab  asleep,  I  suppose,"  Androvsky  answered,  staring 
at  the  motionless  object. 

"  But  the  dog "  She  looked  at  the  white  shape  leaping 

frantically  against  the  tent.  "Are  you  sure?" 

"  It  must  be.  Look,  it  is  wrapped  in  rags  and  the  head  is 
covered." 

"  I  don't  know." 

She  stared  at  it.  The  howling  of  the  dog  grew  louder, 
as  if  it  were  straining  every  nerve  to  tell  them  something 
dreadful. 

"  Do  you  mind  getting  off  and  seeing  what  it  is?  I'll  hold 
the  horse." 

He  swung  himself  out  of  the  saddle.  She  caught  his  rein 
and  watched  him  go  forward  to  the  thing  that  lay  by  the  fire, 
bend  down  over  it,  touch  it,  recoil  from  it,  then — as  if  with  a 
determined  effort — kneel  down  beside  it  on  the  ground  and 
take  the  rags  that  covered  it  in  his  hands.  After  a  moment  of 
contemplation  of  what  they  had  hidden  he  dropped  the  rags — 
or  rather  threw  them  from  him  with  a  violent  gesture — got  up 
and  came  back  to  Domini,  and  looked  at  her  without  speaking. 
She  bent  down. 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  she  said.  "  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is.  It's  a 
dead  woman." 

It  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  dark  thing  lying  by  the  fire  was 
herself. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.     "  It's  a  woman  who  has  been  strangled." 

"  Poor  woman!  "  she  said.     "  Poor — poor  woman!  " 

And  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  said  it  of  herself. 


CHAPTER   XV 

LYING  in  bed  in  the  dark  that  night  Domini  heard  the  church 
clock  chime  the  hours.  She  was  not  restless,  though  she  was 
wakeful.  Indeed,  she  felt  like  a  woman  to  whom  an  injection 
of  morphia  had  been  administered,  as  if  she  never  wished  to 
move  again.  She  lay  there  counting  the  minutes  that  made  the 
passing  hours,  counting  them  calmly,  with  an  inexorable  and 
almost  cold  self-possession.  The  process  presently  became 
mechanical,  and  she  was  able,  at  the  same  time,  to  dwell  upon 
the  events  that  had  followed  upon  the  discovery  of  the  murdered 
woman  by  the  tent:  Androvsky's  pulling  aside  of  the  door  of 
the  tent  to  find  it  empty,  their  short  ride  to  the  encampment 


THE  GARDEN  255 

close  by,  their  rousing  up  of  the  sleeping  Arabs  within,  filth)' 
nomads  clothed  in  patched  garments,  unveiled  women  with 
wrinkled,  staring  faces  and  huge  plaits  of  false  hair  and  amulets. 
From  the  tents  the  strange  figures  had  streamed  forth  into  the 
light  of  the  moon  and  the  fading  fires,  gesticulating,  talking 
loudly,  furiously,  in  an  uncouth  language  that  was  unintelligible 
to  her.  Led  by  Androvsky  they  had  come  to  the  corpse,  while 
the  air  was  rent  by  the  frantic  barking  of  all  the  guard  dogs  and 
the  howling  of  the  dog  that  had  been  a  witness  of  the  murder. 
Then  in  the  night  had  risen  the  shrill  wailing  of  the  women, 
a  wailing  that  seemed  to  pierce  the  stars  and  shudder  out  to  the 
remotest  confines  of  the  desert,  and  in  the  cold  white  radiance 
of  the  moon  a  savage  vision  of  grief  had  been  presented  to  her 
eyes:  naked  arms  gesticulating  as  if  they  strove  to  summon 
vengeance  from  heaven,  claw-like  hands  casting  earth  upon  the 
heads  from  which  dangled  Fatma  hands,  chains  of  tarnished 
silver  and  lumps  of  coral  that  reminded  her  of  congealed  blood, 
bodies  that  swayed  and  writhed  as  if  stricken  with  convulsions 
or  rent  by  seven  devils.  She  remembered  how  strange  had 
seemed  to  her  the  vast  calm,  the  vast  silence,  that  encompassed 
this  noisy  outburst  of  humanity,  how  inflexible  had  looked  the 
enormous  moon,  how  unsympathetic  the  brightly  shining  stars, 
how  feverish  and  irritable  the  flickering  illumination  of  the 
flames  that  spurted  up  and  fainted  away  like  things  still  living 
but  in  the  agonies  of  death. 

Then  had  followed  her  silent  ride  back  to  Beni-Mora  with 
Androvsky  along  the  straight  road  which  had  always  fascinated 
her  spirit  of  adventure.  They  had  ridden  slowly,  without 
looking  at  each  other,  without  exchanging  a  word.  She  had 
felt  dry  and  weary,  like  an  old  woman  who  had  passed  through 
a  long  life  of  suffering  and  emerged  into  a  region  where  any 
acute  feeling  is  unable  to  exist,  as  at  a  certain  altitude  from  the 
earth  human  life  can  no  longer  exist.  The  beat  of  the  horses' 
hoofs  upon  the  road  had  sounded  hard,  as  her  heart  felt,  cold  as 
the  temperature  of  her  mind.  Her  body,  which  usually  swayed 
to  her  horse's  slightest  movement,  was  rigid  in  the  saddle.  She 
recollected  that  once,  when  her  horse  stumbled,  she  had  thrilled 
with  an  abrupt  anger  that  was  almost  ferocious,  and  had  lifted 
her  whip  to  lash  it.  But  the  hand  had  slipped  down  nervelessly, 
and  she  had  fallen  again  into  her  frigid  reverie. 

When  they  reached  the  hotel  she  had  dropped  to  the  ground 
heavily,  and  heavily  had  ascended  the  steps  of  the  verandah, 
followed  by  Androvsky.  Without  turning  to  him  or  bidding 


254  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  An  Arab  asleep,  I  suppose,"  Androvsky  answered,  staring 
at  the  motionless  object. 

"  But  the  dog "  She  looked  at  the  white  shape  leaping 

frantically  against  the  tent.  "Are  you  sure?" 

"  It  must  be.  Look,  it  is  wrapped  in  rags  and  the  head  is 
covered." 

"  I  don't  know." 

She  stared  at  it.  The  howling  of  the  dog  grew  louder, 
as  if  it  were  straining  every  nerve  to  tell  them  something 
dreadful. 

"  Do  you  mind  getting  off  and  seeing  what  it  is?  I'll  hold 
the  horse." 

He  swung  himself  out  of  the  saddle.  She  caught  his  rein 
and  watched  him  go  forward  to  the  thing  that  lay  by  the  fire, 
bend  down  over  it,  touch  it,  recoil  from  it,  then — as  if  with  a 
determined  effort — kneel  down  beside  it  on  the  ground  and 
take  the  rags  that  covered  it  in  his  hands.  After  a  moment  of 
contemplation  of  what  they  had  hidden  he  dropped  the  rags — 
or  rather  threw  them  from  him  with  a  violent  gesture — got  up 
and  came  back  to  Domini,  and  looked  at  her  without  speaking. 
She  bent  down. 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  she  said.  "  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is.  It's  a 
dead  woman." 

It  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  dark  thing  lying  by  the  fire  was 
herself. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.     "  It's  a  woman  who  has  been  strangled." 

"  Poor  woman!  "  she  said.     "  Poor — poor  woman!  " 

And  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  said  it  of  herself. 


CHAPTER   XV 

LYING  in  bed  in  the  dark  that  night  Domini  heard  the  church 
clock  chime  the  hours.  She  was  not  restless,  though  she  was 
wakeful.  Indeed,  she  felt  like  a  woman  to  whom  an  injection 
of  morphia  had  been  administered,  as  if  she  never  wished  to 
move  again.  She  lay  there  counting  the  minutes  that  made  the 
passing  hours,  counting  them  calmly,  with  an  inexorable  and 
almost  cold  self-possession.  The  process  presently  became 
mechanical,  and  she  was  able,  at  the  same  time,  to  dwell  upon 
the  events  that  had  followed  upon  the  discovery  of  the  murdered 
woman  by  the  tent:  Androvsky's  pulling  aside  of  the  door  of 
the  tent  to  find  it  empty,  their  short  ride  to  the  encampment 


THE  GARDEN  255 

close  by,  their  rousing  up  of  the  sleeping  Arabs  within,  filthy 
nomads  clothed  in  patched  garments,  unveiled  women  with 
wrinkled,  staring  faces  and  huge  plaits  of  false  hair  and  amulets. 
From  the  tents  the  strange  figures  had  streamed  forth  into  the 
light  of  the  moon  and  the  fading  fires,  gesticulating,  talking 
loudly,  furiously,  in  an  uncouth  language  that  was  unintelligible 
to  her.  Led  by  Androvsky  they  had  come  to  the  corpse,  while 
the  air  was  rent  by  the  frantic  barking  of  all  the  guard  dogs  and 
the  howling  of  the  dog  that  had  been  a  witness  of  the  murder. 
Then  in  the  night  had  risen  the  shrill  wailing  of  the  women, 
a  wailing  that  seemed  to  pierce  the  stars  and  shudder  out  to  the 
remotest  confines  of  the  desert,  and  in  the  cold  white  radiance 
of  the  moon  a  savage  vision  of  grief  had  been  presented  to  her 
eyes:  naked  arms  gesticulating  as  if  they  strove  to  summon 
vengeance  from  heaven,  claw-like  hands  casting  earth  upon  the 
heads  from  which  dangled  Fatma  hands,  chains  of  tarnished 
silver  and  lumps  of  coral  that  reminded  her  of  congealed  blood, 
bodies  that  swayed  and  writhed  as  if  stricken  with  convulsions 
or  rent  by  seven  devils.  She  remembered  how  strange  had 
seemed  to  her  the  vast  calm,  the  vast  silence,  that  encompassed 
this  noisy  outburst  of  humanity,  how  inflexible  had  looked  the 
enormous  moon,  how  unsympathetic  the  brightly  shining  stars, 
how  feverish  and  irritable  the  flickering  illumination  of  the 
flames  that  spurted  up  and  fainted  away  like  things  still  living 
but  in  the  agonies  of  death. 

Then  had  followed  her  silent  ride  back  to  Beni-Mora  with 
Androvsky  along  the  straight  road  which  had  always  fascinated 
her  spirit  of  adventure.  They  had  ridden  slowly,  without 
looking  at  each  other,  without  exchanging  a  word.  She  had 
felt  dry  and  weary,  like  an  old  woman  who  had  passed  through 
a  long  life  of  suffering  and  emerged  into  a  region  where  any 
acute  feeling  is  unable  to  exist,  as  at  a  certain  altitude  from  the 
earth  human  life  can  no  longer  exist.  The  beat  of  the  horses' 
hoofs  upon  the  road  had  sounded  hard,  as  her  heart  felt,  cold  as 
the  temperature  of  her  mind.  Her  body,  which  usually  swayed 
to  her  horse's  slightest  movement,  was  rigid  in  the  saddle.  She 
recollected  that  once,  when  her  horse  stumbled,  she  had  thrilled 
with  an  abrupt  anger  that  was  almost  ferocious,  and  had  lifted 
her  whip  to  lash  it.  But  the  hand  had  slipped  down  nervelessly, 
and  she  had  fallen  again  into  her  frigid  reverie. 

When  they  reached  the  hotel  she  had  dropped  to  the  ground 
heavily,  and  heavily  had  ascended  the  steps  of  the  verandah, 
followed  by  Androvsky.  Without  turning  to  him  or  bidding 


258  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

thought  of  it  as  a  tear.  The  rose  was  weeping,  but  her  eyes 
were  dry.  She  touched  the  rose  with  her  lips. 

To-day  the  garden  was  like  a  stranger  to  her,  but  a  stranger 
with  whom  she  had  once — long,  long  ago — been  intimate,  whom 
she  had  trusted,  and  by  whom  she  had  been  betrayed.  She 
looked  at  it  and  knew  that  she  had  thought  it  beautiful  and 
loved  it.  From  its  recesses  had  come  to  her  troops  of  dreams. 
The  leaves  of  its  trees  had  touched  her  as  with  tender  hands. 
The  waters  of  its  rills  had  whispered  to  her  of  the  hidden  things 
that  lie  in  the  breast  of  joy.  The  golden  rays  that  played 
through  its  scented  alleys  had  played,  too,  through  the  shadows 
of  her  heart,  making  a  warmth  and  light  there  that  seemed  to 
come  from  heaven.  She  knew  this  as  one  knows  of  the  apparent 
humanity  that  greeted  one's  own  humanity  in  the  friend  who  is 
a  friend  no  longer,  and  she  sickened  at  it  as  at  the  thought  of 
remembered  intimacy  with  one  proved  treacherous.  There 
seemed  to  her  nothing  ridiculous  in  this  personification  of  the 
garden,  as  there  had  formerly  seemed  to  her  nothing  ridiculous 
in  her  thought  of  the  desert  as  a  being;  but  the  fact  that  she 
did  thus  instinctively  personify  the  nature  that  surrounded  her 
gave  to  the  garden  in  her  eyes  an  aspect  that  was  hostile  and 
even  threatening,  as  if  she  faced  a  love  now  changed  to  hate, 
a  cold  and  inimical  watchfulness  that  knew  too  much  about  her, 
to  which  she  had  once  told  all  her  happy  secrets  and  mur- 
mured all  her  hopes.  She  did  not  hate  the  garden,  but  she  felt 
as  if  she  feared  it.  The  movements  of  its  leaves  conveyed  to 
her  uneasiness.  The  hidden  places,  which  once  had  been  to  her 
retreats  peopled  with  tranquil  blessings,  were  now  become  am- 
bushes in  which  lay  lurking  enemies. 

Yet  she  did  not  leave  it,  for  to-day  something  seemed  to  tell 
her  that  it  was  meant  that  she  should  suffer,  and  she  bowed  in 
spirit  to  the  decree. 

She  went  on  slowly  till  she  reached  the  fumoir.  She  entered 
it  and  sat  down. 

She  had  not  seen  any  of  the  gardeners  or  heard  the  note  of  a 
flute.  The  day  was  very  still.  She  looked  at  the  narrow  door- 
way and  remembered  exactly  the  attitude  in  which  Count 
Anteoni  had  stood  during  their  first  interview,  holding  a  trailing 
branch  of  the  bougainvillea  in  his  hand.  She  saw  him  as  a 
shadow  that  the  desert  had  taken.  Glancing  down  at  the  carpet 
sand  she  imagined  the  figure  of  the  sand  diviner  crouching 
there  and  recalled  his  prophecy,  and  directly  she  did  this  she 
knew  that  she  had  believed  in  it.  She  had  believed  that  one 


THE  GARDEN  259 

day  she  would  ride  out  into  the  desert  in  a  storm,  and  that 
with  her,  enclosed  in  the  curtains  of  a  palanquin,  there  would  be 
a  companion.  The  Diviner  had  not  told  her  who  would  be  this 
companion.  Darkness  was  about  him  rendering  him  invisible 
to  the  eyes  of  the  seer.  But  her  heart  had  told  her.  She  had 
seen  the  other  figure  in  the  palanquin.  It  was  a  man.  It  was 
Androvsky. 

She  had  believed  that  she  would  go  out  into  the  desert  with 
Androvsky,  with  this  traveller  of  whose  history,  of  whose  soul, 
she  knew  nothing.  Some  inherent  fatalism  within  her  had  told 
her  so.  And  now ? 

The  darkness  of  the  shade  beneath  the  trees  in  this  inmost 
recess  of  the  garden  fell  upon  her  like  the  darkness  of  that  storm 
in  which  the  desert  was  blotted  out,  and  it  was  fearful  to  her 
because  she  felt  that  she  must  travel  in  the  storm  alone.  Till 
now  she  had  been  very  much  alone  in  life  and  had  realised  that 
such  solitude  was  dreary,  that  in  it  development  was  difficult, 
and  that  it  checked  the  steps  of  the  pilgrim  who  should  go  up- 
ward to  the  heights  of  life.  But  never  till  now  had  she  felt  the 
fierce  tragedy  of  solitude,  the  utter  terror  of  it.  As  she  sat 
in  the  fumoir,  looking  down  on  the  smoothly-raked  sand,  she 
said  to  herself  that  till  this  moment  she  had  never  had  any  idea 
of  the  meaning  of  solitude.  It  was  the  desert  within  a  human 
soul,  but  the  desert  without  the  sun.  And  she  knew  this  because 
at  last  she  loved.  The  dark  and  silent  flood  of  passion  that  lay 
within  her  had  been  released  from  its  boundaries,  the  old  land- 
marks were  swept  away  for  ever,  the  face  of  the  world  was 
changed. 

She  loved  Androvsky.  Everything  in  her  loved  him ;  all  that 
she  had  been,  all  that  she  was,  all  that  she  could  ever  be  loved 
him;  that  which  was  physical  in  her,  that  which  was  spiritual, 
the  brain,  the  heart,  the  soul,  body  and  flame  burning  within 
it — all  that  made  her  the  wonder  that  is  woman,  loved  him. 
She  was  love  for  Androvsky.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was 
nothing  else,  had  never  been  anything  else.  The  past  years 
were  nothing,  the  pain  by  which  she  was  stricken  when  her 
mother  fled,  by  which  she  was  tormented  when  her  father  died 
blaspheming,  were  nothing.  There  was  no  room  in  her  for 
anything  but  love  of  Androvsky.  At  this  moment  even  her 
love  of  God  seemed  to  have  been  expelled  from  her.  After- 
wards she  remembered  that.  She  did  not  think  of  it  now.  For 
her  there  was  a  universe  with  but  one  figure  in  it — Androvsky. 
She  was  unconscious  of  herself  except  as  love  for  him.  She  was 


26o  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

unconscious  of  any  Creative  Power  to  whom  she  owed  the  fact 
that  he  was  there  to  be  loved  by  her.  She  was  passion,  and 
he  was  that  to  which  passion  flowed. 

The  world  was  the  stream  and  the  sea. 

As  she  sat  there  with  her  hands  folded  on  her  knees,  her  eyes 
bent  down,  and  the  purple  flowers  all  about  her,  she  felt  sim- 
plified and  cleansed,  as  if  a  mass  of  little  things  had  been  swept 
from  her,  leaving  space  for  the  great  thing  that  henceforth 
must  for  ever  dwell  within  her  and  dominate  her  life.  The 
burning  shame  of  which  she  had  been  conscious  on  the  previous 
night,  when  Androvsky  told  her  of  his  approaching  departure 
and  she  was  stricken  as  by  a  lightning  flash,  had  died  away  from 
her  utterly.  She  remembered  it  with  wonder.  How  should 
she  be  ashamed  of  love  ?  She  thought  that  it  would  be  impossi- 
ble to  her  to  be  ashamed,  even  if  Androvsky  knew  all  that  she 
knew.  Just  then  the  immense  truth  of  her  feeling  conquered 
everything  else,  made  every  other  thing  seem  false,  and  she 
said  to  herself  that  of  truth  she  did  not  know  how  to  be  ashamed. 
But  with  the  knowledge  of  the  immense  truth  of  her  love  came 
the  knowledge  of  the  immense  sorrow  that  might,  that  must, 
dwell  side  by  side  with  it. 

Suddenly  she  moved.  She  lifted  her  eyes  from  the  sand  and 
looked  out  into  the  garden.  Besides  this  truth  within  her  there 
was  one  other  thing  in  the  world  that  was  true.  Androvsky 
was  going  away.  While  she  sat  there  the  moments  were  pass- 
ing. They  were  making  the  hours  that  were  bent  upon  de- 
struction. She  was  sitting  in  the  garden  now  and  Androvsky 
was  close  by.  A  little  time  would  pass  noiselessly.  She 
would  be  sitting  there  and  Androvsky  would  be  far  away, 
gone  from  the  desert,  gone  out  of  her  life  no  doubt  for  ever. 
And  the  garden  would  not  have  changed.  Each  tree  would 
stand  in  its  place,  each  flower  would  still  give  forth  its  scent. 
The  breeze  would  go  on  travelling  through  the  lacework  of  the 
branches,  the  streams  slipping  between  the  sandy  walls  of  the 
rills.  The  inexorable  sun  would  shine,  and  the  desert  would 
whisper  in  its  blue  distances  of  the  unseen  things  that  always 
dwell  beyond.  And  Androvsky  would  be  gone.  Their  short 
intercourse,  so  full  of  pain,  uneasiness,  reserve,  so  fragmentary, 
so  troubled  by  abrupt  violences,  by  ignorance,  by  a  sense  of 
horror  even  on  the  one  side,  and  by  an  almost  constant  suspicion 
on  the  other,  would  have  come  to  an  end. 

She  was  stunned  by  the  thought,  and  looked  round  her  as  if 
she  expected  inanimate  Nature  to  take  up  arms  for  her  against 


THE  GARDEN  261 

this  fate.  Yet  she  did  not  for  a  moment  think  of  taking  up  arms 
herself.  She  had  left  the  hotel  without  trying  to  see  Androvsky. 
She  did  not  intend  to  return  to  it  till  he  was  gone.  The  idea  oi 
seeking  him  never  came  into  her  mind.  There  is  an  intensity  of 
feeling  that  generates  action,  but  there  is  a  greater  intensity  ot 
feeling  that  renders  action  impossible,  the  feeling  that  seems  to 
turn  a  human  being  into  a  shell  of  stone  within  which  burn  all 
the  fires  of  creation.  Domini  knew  that  she  would  not  move  out 
of  the  fumoir  till  the  train  was  creeping  along  the  river-bed  on  its 
way  from  Beni-Mora. 

She  had  laid  down  the  Imitation  upon  the  seat  by  her  side, 
and  now  she  took  it  up.  The  sight  of  its  familiar  pages  made 
her  think  for  the  first  time,  "  Do  I  love  God  any  more?  "  And 
immediately  afterwards  came  the  thought:  "  Have  I  ever  loved 
him  ?  "  The  knowledge  of  her  love  for  Androvsky,  for  this  body 
that  she  had  seen,  for  this  soul  that  she  had  seen  through  the 
body  like  a  flame  through  glass,  made  her  believe  just  then  that 
if  she  had  ever  thought — and  certainly  she  had  thought — that 
she  loved  a  being  whom  she  had  never  seen,  never  even  im- 
aginatively projected,  she  had  deceived  herself.  The  act  of  faith 
was  not  impossible,  but  the  act  of  love  for  the  object  on  which 
that  faith  was  concentrated  now  seemed  to  her  impossible.  For 
her  body,  that  remained  passive,  was  full  of  a  riot,  a  fury  of  life. 
The  flesh  that  had  slept  was  awakened  and  knew  itself.  And 
she  could  no  longer  feel  that  she  could  love  that  which  her  flesh 
could  not  touch,  that  which  could  not  touch  her  flesh.  And  she 
said  to  herself,  without  terror,  even  without  regret,  "  I  do  not 
love,  I  never^have  loved,  God." 

She  looked  into  the  book: 

"  Unspeakable,  indeed,  is  the  sweetness  of  thy  contemplation, 
which  thou  bestowest  on  them  that  love  thee." 

The  sweetness  of  thy  contemplation !  She  remembered 
Androvsky's  face  looking  at  her  out  of  the  heart  of  the  sun  as 
they  met  for  the  first  time  in  the  blue  country.  In  that  moment 
she  put  him  consciously  in  the  place  of  God,  and  there  was 
nothing  within  her  to  say,  "  You  are  committing  mortal  sin." 

She  looked  into  the  book  once  more  and  her  eyes  fell  upon 
the  words  which  she  had  read  on  her  first  morning  in  Beni- 
Mora: 

"  Love  watcheth,  and  sleeping,  slumbereth  not.  When  weary 
it  is  not  tired ;  when  straitened  it  is  not  constrained ;  when 
frightened  it  is  not  disturbed;  but  like  a  vivid  flame  and  a 
burning  torch  it  mounteth  upwards  and  securely  passeth 


262  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

through  all.  Whosoever  loveth  knoweth  the  cry  of  this 
voice." 

She  had  always  loved  these  words  and  thought  them  the  most 
ibeautiful  in  the  book,  but  now  they  came  to  her  with  the  newness 
of  the  first  spring  morning  that  ever  dawned  upon  the  world. 
The  depth  of  them  was  laid  bare  to  her,  and,  with  that  depth,  the 
depth  of  her  own  heart.  The  paralysis  of  anguish  passed  from 
her.  She  no  longer  looked  to  Nature  as  one  dumbly  seeking 
help.  For  they  led  her  to  herself,  and  made  her  look  into  herself 
and  her  own  love  and  know  it.  "  When  frightened  it  is  not  dis- 
turbed— it  securely  passeth  through  all."  That  was  absolutely 
true — true  as  her  love.  She  looked  down  into  her  love,  and  she 
saw  there  the  face  of  God,  but  thought  she  saw  the  face  of 
human  love  only.  And  it  was  so  beautiful  and  so  strong  that 
even  the  tears  upon  it  gave  her  courage,  and  she  said  to  herself: 
"  Nothing  matters,  nothing  can  matter  so  long  as  I  have  this 
love  within  me.  He  is  going  away,  but  I  am  not  sad,  for  I  am 
going  with  him — my  love,  all  that  I  am — that  is  going  with 
him,  will  always  be  with  him." 

Just  then  it  seemed  to  her  that  if  she  had  seen  Androvsky 
lying  dead  before  her  on  the  sand  she  could  not  have  felt  un- 
happy. Nothing  could  do  harm  to  a  great  love.  It  was  the 
one  permanent,  eternally  vital  thing,  clad  in  an  armour  of  fire 
that  no  weapon  could  pierce,  free  of  all  terror  from  outside 
things  because  it  held  its  safety  within  its  own  heart,  everlast- 
ingly enough,  perfectly,  flawlessly  complete  for  and  in  itself. 
For  that  moment  fear  left  her,  restlessness  left  her.  Anyone 
looking  in  upon  her  from  the  garden  would  have  looked  in  upon 
a  great,  calm  happiness. 

Presently  there  came  a  step  upon  the  sand  of  the  garden 
walks.  A  man,  going  slowly,  with  a  sort  of  passionate  reluct- 
ance, as  if  something  immensely  strong  was  trying  to  hold  him 
back,  but  was  conquered  with  difficulty  by  something  still 
stronger  that  drove  him  on,  came  out  of  the  fierce  sunshine  into 
the  shadow  of  the  garden,  and  began  to  search  its  silent  recesses. 
It  was  Androvsky.  He  looked  bowed  and  old  and  guilty. 
The  two  lines  near  his  mouth  were  deep.  His  lips  were  work- 
ing. His  thin  cheeks  had  fallen  in  like  the  cheeks  of  a  man 
devoured  by  a  wasting  illness,  and  the  strong  tinge  of  sunburn 
on  them  seemed  to  be  but  an  imperfect  mark  to  a  pallor  that, 
fully  visible,  would  have  been  more  terrible  than  that  of  a 
corpse.  In  his  eyes  there  was  a  fixed  expression  of  ferocious 
grief  that  seemed  mingled  with  ferocious  anger,  as  if  he  were 


THE  GARDEN  263 

suffering  from  some  dreadful  misery,  and  cursed  himself  because 
he  suffered,  as  a  man  may  curse  himself  for  doing  a  thing  that  he 
chooses  to  do  but  need  not  do.  Such  an  expression  may  some- 
times be  seen  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  are  resisting  a  great 
temptation. 

He  began  to  search  the  garden,  furtively  but  minutely. 
Sometimes  he  hesitated.  Sometimes  he  stood  still.  Then  he 
turned  back  and  went  a  little  way  towards  the  wide  sweep  of 
sand  that  was  bathed  in  sunlight  where  the  villa  stood.  Then 
with  more  determination,  and  walking  faster,  he  again  made  his 
way  through  the  shadows  that  slept  beneath  the  densely-growing 
trees.  As  he  passed  between  them  he  several  times  stretched 
out  trembling  hands,  broke  off  branches  and  threw  them  on  the 
sand,  treading  on  them  heavily  and  crushing  them  down  below 
the  surface.  Once  he  spoke  to  himself  in  a  low  voice  that 
shook  as  if  with  difficulty  dominating  sobs  that  were  rising  in 
his  throat. 

"  De  profundis — "  he  said.  "  De  profundis — de  profun- 
dis  M 

His  voice  died  away.  He  took  hold  of  one  hand  with  the 
other  and  went  on  silently. 

Presently  he  made  his  way  at  last  towards  the  fumoir  in 
which  Domini  was  still  sitting,  with  one  hand  resting  on  the 
open  page  whose  words  had  lit  up  the  darkness  in  her  spirit. 
He  came  to  it  so  softly  that  she  did  not  hear  his  step.  He  saw 
her,  stood  quite  still  under  the  trees,  and  looked  at  her  for  a 
long  time.  As  he  did  so  his  face  changed  till  he  seemed  to  be- 
come another  man.  The  ferocity  of  grief  and  anger  faded  from 
his  eyes,  which  were  filled  with  an  expression  of  profound  won- 
der, then  of  flickering  uncertainty,  then  of  hard,  manly  resolu- 
tion— a  fighting  expression  that  was  full  of  sex  and  passion.  The 
guilty,  furtive  look  which  had  been  stamped  upon  all  his 
features,  specially  upon  his  lips,  vanished.  Suddenly  he  became 
younger  in  appearance.  His  figure  straightened  itself.  His 
hands  ceased  from  trembling.  He  moved  away  from  the  trees, 
and  went  to  the  doorway  of  the  fumoir. 

Domini  looked  up,  saw  him,  and  got  up  quietly,  clasping  her 
fingers  round  the  little  book. 

Androvsky  stood  just  beyond  the  doorway,  took  off  his  hat, 
kept  it  in  his  hand,  and  said: 

"  I  came  here  to  say  good-bye." 

He  made  a  movement  as  if  to  come  into  the  fumoir,  but  she 
stopped  it  by  coming  at  once  to  the  opening.  She  felt  that  she 


266  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

The  link  between  the  man  and  the  desert  was  indissoluble. 
She  could  not  conceive  of  its  being  severed,  and  as  she  realised 
this,  she  realised  also  something  that  turned  her  whole  nature 
into  flame. 

She  could  not  conceive  of  Androvsky's  not  loving  her,  of  his 
not  having  loved  her  from  the  moment  when  he  saw  her  in  the 
sun.  To  him,  too,  the  desert  had  made  a  revelation — the  reve- 
lation of  her  face,  and  of  the  soul  behind  it  looking  through  it. 
In  the  flames  of  the  sun,  as  they  went  into  the  desert,  the.  flames 
of  their  two  spirits  had  been  blended.  She  knew  that  certainly 
and  for  ever.  Then  how  could  it  be  possible  that  Androvsky 
should  not  go  out  with  her  into  the  desert? 

"  Why  did  you  speak  to  me?  "  he  said. 

"  We  came  into  the  desert  together,"  she  answered  simply. 
"  We  had  to  know  each  other." 

"  And  now — now — we  have  to  say " 

His  voice  ceased.  Far  away  there  was  the  thin  sound  of  a 
chime.  Domini  had  never  before  heard*  the  church  bell  in  the 
garden,  and  now  she  felt  as  if  she  heard  it,  not  with  her  ears,  but 
with  her  spirit.  As  she  heard  she  felt  Androvsky's  hand,  which 
had  been  hot  upon  hers,  turn  cold.  He  let  her  hand  go,  and 
again  she  was  stricken  by  the  horrible  sound  she  had  heard  the 
previous  night  in  the  desert,  when  he  turned  his  horse  and  rode 
away  with  her.  And  now,  as  then,  he  turned  away  from  her  in 
silence,  but  she  knew  that  this  time  he  was  leaving  her,  that  this 
movement  was  his  final  good-bye.  With  his  head  bowed  down 
he  took  a  few  steps.  He  was  near  to  a  turning  of  the  path.  She 
watched  him,  knowing  that  within  less  than  a  moment  she  would 
be  watching  only  the  trees  and  the  sand.  She  gazed  at  the  bent 
figure,  calling  up  all  her  faculties,  crying  out  to  herself  passion- 
ately, desperately,  "  Remember  it — remember  it  as  it  is — there 
— before  you — just  as  it  is — for  ever."  As  it  reached  the  turn- 
ing, in  the  distance  of  the  garden  rose  the  twitter  of  the  flute  of 
Larbi.  Androvsky  stopped,  stood  still  with  his  back  turned 
towards  her.  And  Larbi,  hidden  and  far  off,  showered  out  his 
little  notes  of  African  love,  of  love  in  the  desert  where  the  sun  is 
everlasting,  and  the  passion  of  man  is  hot  as  the  sun,  where 
Liberty  reigns,  lifting  her  cymbals  that  are  as  spheres  of  fire,  and 
the  footsteps  of  Freedom  are  heard  upon  the  sand,  treading 
towards  the  south. 

Larbi  played — played  on  and  on,  untiring  as  the  love  that 
blossomed  with  the  world,  but  that  will  not  die  when  the  world 
dies. 


THE  GARDEN  267 

Then  Androvsky  came  back  quickly  till  he  reached  the  place 
where  Domini  was  standing.  He  put  his  hands  on  her  shoul- 
ders. Then  he  sank  down  on  the  sand,  letting  his  hands  slip 
down  over  her  breast  and  along  her  whole  body  till  they  clasped 
themselves  round  her  knees.  He  pressed  his  face  into  her  dress 
against  her  knees. 

"  I  love  you,"  he  said.  "  I  love  you — but  don't  listen  to  me 
— you  mustn't  hear  it — you  mustn't.  But  I  must  say  it.  I 
can't — I  can't  go  till  I  say  it.  I  love  you — I  love  you." 

She  heard  him  sobbing  against  her  knees,  and  the  sound  was 
as  the  sound  of  strength  made  audible.  She  put  her  hands 
against  his  temples. 

"  I  am  listening,"  she  said.     "  I  must  hear  it.'* 

He  looked  up,  rose  to  his  feet,  put  his  hands  behind  her 
shoulders,  held  her,  and  set  his  lips  on  hers,  pressing  his  whole 
body  against  hers. 

"  Hear  it!  "  he  said,  muttering  against  her  lips.  "  Hear  it. 
I  love  you — I  love  you." 

The  two  birds  they  had  seen  flew  back  beneath  the  trees, 
turned  in  an  airy  circle,  rose  above  the  trees  into  the  blue  sky, 
and,  side  by  side,  winged  their  way  out  of  the  garden  to  the 
desert. 


BOOK  IV 

THE  JOURNEY 
CHAPTER  XVI 

IN  the  evening  before  the  day  of  Domini's  marriage  with 
Androvsky  there  was  a  strange  sunset,  which  attracted 
even  the  attention  and  roused  the  comment  of  the 
Arabs.  The  day  had  been  calm  and  beautiful,  one 
of  the  most  lovely  days  of  the  North  African  spring, 
and  Batouch,  resting  from  the  triumphant  labour  of  super- 
intending the  final  preparations  for  a  long  desert  journey, 
augured  a  morning  of  Paradise  for  the  departure  along  the 
straight  road  that  led  at  last  to  Tombouctou.  But  as  the 
radiant  afternoon  drew  to  its  end  there  came  into  the  blue 
sky  a  whiteness  that  suggested  a  heaven  turning  pale  in  the 
contemplation  of  some  act  that  was  piteous  and  terrible.  And 
under  this  blanching  heaven  the  desert,  and  all  things  and  people 
of  the  oasis  of  Beni-Mora,  assumed  an  aspect  of  apprehension, 
as  if  they  felt  themselves  to  be  in  the  thrall  of  some  power  whose 
omnipotence  they  could  not  question  and  whose  purpose  they 
feared.  This  whiteness  was  shot,  at  the  hour  of  sunset,  with 
streaks  of  sulphur  yellow  and  dappled  with  small,  ribbed  clouds 
tinged  with  yellow-green,  a  bitter  and  cruel  shade  of  green  that 
distressed  the  eyes  as  a  merciless  light  distresses  them,  but  these 
colours  quickly  faded,  and  again  the  whiteness  prevailed  for  a 
brief  space  of  time  before  the  heavy  falling  of  a  darkness  un- 
pierced  by  stars.  With  this  darkness  came  a  faint  moaning  of 
hollow  wind  from  the  desert,  a  lamentable  murmur  that  shud- 
dered over  the  great  spaces,  crept  among  the  palms  and  the  flat- 
roofed  houses,  and  died  away  at  the  foot  of  the  brown  mountains 
beyond  the  Hammam  Salahine.  The  succeeding  silence,  short 
and  intense,  was  like  a  sound  of  fear,  like  the  cry  of  a  voice 
lifted  up  in  protest  against  the  approach  of  an  unknown,  but 
dreaded,  fate.  Then  the  wind  came  again  with  a  stronger 
moaning  and  a  lengthened  life,  not  yet  forceful,  not  yet  with 

268 


THE  JOURNEY  269 

all  its  powers,  but  more  tenacious,  more  acquainted  with  itself 
and  the  deeds  that  it  might  do  when  the  night  was  black 
among  the  vast  sands  which  were  its  birth-place,  among  the 
crouching  plains  and  the  trembling  palm  groves  that  would 
be  its  battle-ground. 

Batouch  looked  grave  as  he  listened  to  the  wind  and  the  creak- 
ing of  the  palm  stems  one  against  another.  Sand  came  upon  his 
face.  He  pulled  the  hood  of  his  burnous  over  his  turban  and 
across  his  cheeks,  covered  his  mouth  with  a  fold  of  his  haik  and 
stared  into  the  blackness,  like  an  animal  in  search  of  something 
his  instinct  has  detected  approaching  from  a  distance. 

Ali  was  beside  him  in  the  doorway  of  the  Cafe  Maure,  a  slim 
Arab  boy,  bronze-coloured  and  serious  as  an  idol,  who  was  a 
troubadour  of  the  Sahara,  singer  of  "Janat "  and  many  love- 
songs,  player  of  the  guitar  backed  with  sand  tortoise  and  faced 
with  stretched  goatskin.  Behind  them  swung  an  oil  lamp 
fastened  to  a  beam  of  palm,  and  the  red  ashes  glowed  in  the 
coffee  niche  and  shed  a  ray  upon  the  shelf  of  small  white  cups 
with  faint  designs  of  gold.  In  a  corner,  his  black  face  and  arms 
faintly  relieved  against  the  wall,  an  old  negro  crouched,  gazing 
into  vacancy  with  bulging  eyes,  and  beating  with  a  curved  palm 
stem  upon  an  oval  drum,  whose  murmur  was  deep  and  hollow 
as  the  murmur  of  the  wind,  and  seemed  indeed  its  echo  prisoned 
within  the  room  and  striving  to  escape. 

"  There  is  sand  on  my  eyelids,"  said  Batouch.  "  It  is  bad 
for  to-morrow.  When  Allah  sends  the  sands  we  should  cover 
the  face  and  play  the  ladies'  game  within  the  cafe,  we  should  not 
travel  on  the  road  towards  the  south." 

Ali  said  nothing,  but  drew  up  his  haik  over  his  mouth  and 
nose,  and  looked  into  the  night,  folding  his  thin  hands  in  his 
burnous. 

"  Achmed  will  sleep  in  the  Bordj  of  Arba,"  continued  Batouch 
in  a  low,  murmuring  voice,  as  if  speaking  to  himself.  "  And  the 
beasts  will  be  in  the  court.  Nothing  can  remain  outside,  for 
there  will  be  a  greater  roaring  of  the  wind  at  Arba.  Can  it  be 
the  will  of  Allah  that  we  rest  in  the  tents  to-morrow?  " 

Ali  made  no  answer.  The  wind  had  suddenly  died  down. 
The  sand  grains  came  no  more  against  their  eyelids  and  the  folds 
of  their  haiks.  Behind  them  the  negro's  drum  gave  out  mono- 
tonously its  echo  of  the  wind,  rilling  the  silence  of  the  night, 

"  Whatever  Allah  sends,"  Batouch  went  on  softly  after  a 
pause,  "  Madame  will  go.  She  is  brave  as  the  lion.  There  is 
no  jackal  in  Madame.  Irena  is  not  more  brave  than  she  is.  But 


270  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

Madame  will  never  wear  the  veil  for  a  man's  sake.  She  will 
not  wear  the  veil,  but  she  could  give  a  knife-thrust  if  he  were  to 
look  at  another  woman  as  he  has  looked  at  her,  as  he  will  look 
at  her  to-morrow.  She  is  proud  as  a  Touareg  and  there  is 
fierceness  in  her.  But  he  will  never  look  at  another  woman  as 
he  will  look  at  her  to-morrow.  The  Roumi  is  not  as  we  are." 

The  wind  came  back  to  join  its  sound  with  the  drum,  im- 
prisoning the  two  Arabs  in  a  muttering  circle. 

"  They  will  not  care,"  said  Batouch.  "  They  will  go  out  into 
the  storm  without  fear." 

The  sand  pattered  more  sharply  on  his  eyelids.  He  drew 
back  into  the  cafe.  Ali  followed  him,  and  they  squatted  down 
side  by  side  upon  the  ground  and  looked  before  them  seriously. 
The  noise  of  the  wind  increased  till  it  nearly  drowned  the  noise 
of  the  negro's  drum.  Presently  the  one-eyed  owner  of  the  cafe 
brought  them  two  cups  of  coffee,  setting  the  cups  near  their 
stockinged  feet.  They  rolled  two  cigarettes  and  smoked  in 
silence,  sipping  the  coffee  from  time  to  time.  Then  Ali  began 
to  glance  towards  the  negro.  Half  shutting  his  eyes,  and  assum- 
ing a  languid  expression  that  was  almost  sickly,  he  stretched 
his  lips  in  a  smile,  gently  moving  his  head  from  side  to  side. 
Batouch  watched  him.  Presently  he  opened  his  lips  and  began 
to  sing: 

"The  love  of  women  is  like  a  date  that  is  golden  in  the  sun, 

That  is  golden — 
The  love  of  women  is  like  a  gazelle  that  comes  to  drink — 

To  drink  at  the  water  springs — 
The  love  of  women  is  like  the  nargileh,  and  like  the  dust  of  the  keef 

That  is  mingled  with  tobacco  and  with  honey. 
Put  the  reed  between  thy  lips,  O  loving  man ! 
And  draw  dreams  from  the  haschish  that  is  the  love  of  women  I 
"Janat!  Janat!  Janat!" 

The  wind  grew  louder  and  sand  was  blown  along  the  cafe 
floor  and  about  the  coffee-cups. 

"  The  love  of  women  is  like  the  rose  of  the  Caid's  garden     _ 

That  is  full  of  silver  tears — 

The  love  of  women  is  like  the  first  day  of  the  spring 
When  the  children  play  at  Cora — 
The  love  of  women  is  like  the  Derbouka  that  has  been  warmed  at 

the  fire 

And  gives  out  a  sweet  sound. 
Take  it  in  thy  hands,  O  loving  man ! 
And  sing  to  the  Derbouka  that  is  the  love  of  women. 
Janat!  Janat!  Janat  1" 


THE  JOURNEY  271 

In  the  doorway,  where  the  lamp  swung  from  the  beam,  a 
man  in  European  dress  stood  still  to  listen.  The  wind  wailed 
behind  him  and  stirred  his  clothes.  His  eyes  shone  in  the  faint 
light  with  a  fierceness  of  emotion  in  which  there  was  a  joy  that 
was  almost  terrible,  but  in  which  there  seemed  also  to  be  some- 
thing that  was  troubled.  When  the  song  died  away,  and  only 
the  voices  of  the  wind  and  the  drum  spoke  to  the  darkness,  he 
disappeared  into  the  night.  The  Arabs  did  not  see  him. 

"Janat!    Janat!    Janat!" 

The  night  drew  on  and  the  storm  increased.  All  the  doors 
of  the  houses  were  closely  shut.  Upon  the  roofs  the  guard  dogs 
crouched,  shivering  and  whining,  against  the  earthen  parapets. 
The  camels  groaned  in  the  fondouks,  and  the  tufted  heads  of 
the  palms  swayed  like  the  waves  of  the  sea.  And  the  Sahara 
seemed  to  be  lifting  up  its  voice  in  a  summons  that  was  tremen- 
dous as  a  summons  to  Judgment. 

Domini  had  always  known  that  the  desert  would  summon 
her.  She  heard  its  summons  now  in  the  night  without  fear. 
The  roaring  of  the  tempest  was  sweet  in  her  ears  as  the  sound 
of  the  Derbouka  to  the  loving  man  of  the  sands.  It  accorded 
with  the  fire  that  lit  up  the  cloud  of  passion  in  her  heart.  Its 
wildness  marched  in  step  with  a  marching  wildness  in  her  veins 
and  pulses.  For  her  gipsy  blood  was  astir  to-night,  and  the 
recklessness  of  the  boy  in  her  seemed  to  clamour  with  the 
storm.  The  sound  of  the  wind  was  as  the  sound  of  the  clashing 
cymbals  of  Liberty,  calling  her  to  the  adventure  that  love  would 
glorify,  to  the  far-away  life  that  love  would  make  perfect,  to 
the  untrodden  paths  of  the  sun  of  which  she  had  dreamed  in 
the  shadows,  and  on  which  she  would  set  her  feet  at  last  with 
the  comrade  of  her  soul. 

To-morrow  her  life  would  begin,  her  real  life,  the  life  of 
which  men  and  women  dream  as  the  prisoner  dreams  of  freedom. 
And  she  was  glad,  she  thanked  God,  that  her  past  years  had 
been  empty  of  joy,  that  in  her  youth  she  had  been  robbed  of 
youth's  pleasures.  She  thanked  God  that  she  had  come  to 
maturity  without  knowing  love.  It  seemed  to  her  that  to  love 
in  early  life  was  almost  pitiful,  was  a  catastrophe,  an  experience 
for  which  the  soul  was  not  ready,  and  so  could  not  appreciate 
at  its  full  and  wonderful  value.  She  thought  of  it  as  of  a  child 
being  taken  away  from  the  world  to  Paradise  without  having 
known  the  pain  of  existence  in  the  world,  and  at  that  moment 


272  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

she  worshipped  suffering.  Every  tear  that  she  had  ever  shed  she 
loved,  every  weary  hour,  every  despondent  thought,  every  cruel 
disappointment.  She  called  around  her  the  congregation  of  her 
past  sorrows,  and  she  blessed  them  and  bade  them  depart  from 
her  for  ever. 

As  she  heard  the  roaring  of  the  wind  she  smiled.  The 
Sahara  was  fulfilling  the  words  of  the  Diviner.  To-morrow 
she  and  Androvsky  would  go  out  into  the  storm  and  the  dark- 
ness together.  The  train  of  camels  would  be  lost  in  the  desola- 
tion of  the  desert.  And  the  people  of  Beni-Mora  would  see 
it  vanish,  and,  perhaps,  would  pity  those  who  were  hidden  by 
the  curtains  of  the  palanquin.  They  would  pity  her  as  Suzanne 
pitied  her,  openly,  with  eyes  that  were  tragic.  She  laughed 
aloud. 

It  was  late  in  the  night.  Midnight  had  sounded  yet  she  did 
not  go  to  bed.  She  feared  to  sleep,  to  lose  the  consciousness  of 
her  joy  of  the  glory  which  had  come  into  her  life.  She  was  a 
miser  of  the  golden  hours  of  this  black  and  howling  night.  To 
sleep  would  be  to  be  robbed.  A  splendid  avarice  in  her  rebelled 
against  the  thought  of  sleep. 

Was  Androvsky  sleeping?  She  wondered  and  longed  to 
know. 

To-night  she  was  fully  aware  for  the  first  time  of  the  inherent 
fearlessness  of  her  character,  which  was  made  perfect  at  last  by 
her  perfect  love.  Alone,  she  had  always  had  courage.  Even  in 
her  most  listless  hours  she  had  never  been  a  craven.  But  now 
she  felt  the  completeness  of  a  nature  clothed  in  armour  that 
rendered  it  impregnable.  It  was  a  strange  thing  that  man 
should  have  the  power  to  put  the  finishing  touch  to  God's  work, 
that  religion  should  stoop  to  be  a  handmaid  to  faith  in  a  human 
being,  but  she  did  not  think  it  strange.  Everything  in  life 
seemed  to  her  to  be  in  perfect  accord  because  her  heart  was  in 
perfect  accord  with  another  heart. 

And  she  welcomed  the  storm.  She  even  welcomed  something 
else  that  came  to  her  now  in  the  storm :  the  memory  of  the  sand 
diviner's  tortured  face  as  he  gazed  down  reading  her  fate  in  the 
sand.  For  what  was  an  untroubled  fate?  Surely  a  life  that 
crept  along  the  hollows  and  had  no  impulse  to  call  it  to  the 
heights.  Knowing  the  flawless  perfection  of  her  armour  she  had 
a  wild  longing  to  prove  it.  She  wished  that  there  should  be 
assaults  upon  her  love,  because  she  knew  she  could  resist  them 
one  and  all,  and  she  wished  to  have  the  keen  joy  of  resisting 
them.  There  is  a  health  of  body  so  keen  and  vital  that  it  de- 


THE   JOURNEY  273 

sires  combat.     The  soul  sometimes  knows  a  precisely  similar 
health  and  is  filled  with  a  similar  desire. 

"  Put  my  love  to  the  proof,  O  God !  "  was  Domini's  last 
prayer  that  night  when  the  storm  was  at  its  wildest.  "  Put  my 
love  to  the  uttermost  proof  that  he  may  know  it,  as  he  can  never 
know  it  otherwise." 

And  she  fell  asleep  at  length,  peacefully,  in  the  tumult  of  the 
night,  feeling  that  God  had  heard  her  prayer. 

The  dawn  came  struggling  like  an  exhausted  pilgrim  through 
the  windy  dark,  pale  and  faint,  with  no  courage,  it  seemed,  to 
grow  bravely  into  day.  As  if  with  the  sedulous  effort  of  some- 
thing weary  but  of  unconquered  will,  it  slowly  lit  up  Beni-Mora 
with  a  feeble  light  that  flickered  in  a  cloud  of  whirling  sand, 
revealing  the  desolation  of  an  almost  featureless  void.  The 
village,  the  whole  oasis,  was  penetrated  by  a  passionate  fog  that 
instead  of  brooding  heavily,  phlegmatically,  over  the  face  of  life 
and  nature  travelled  like  a  demented  thing  bent  upon  instant 
destruction,  and  coming  thus  cloudily  to  be  more  free  for  crime 
It  was  an  emissary  of  the  desert,  propelled  with  irresistible  force 
from  the  farthest  recess  of  the  dunes,  and  the  desert  itself  seemed 
to  be  hurrying  behind  it  as  if  to  spy  upon  the  doing  of  its 
deeds. 

As  the  sea  in  a  great  storm  rages  against  the  land,  ferocious 
that  land  should  be,  so  the  desert  now  raged  against  the  oasis  that 
ventured  to  exist  in  its  bosom.  Every  palm  tree  was  the  victim 
of  its  wrath,  every  running  rill,  every  habitation  of  man.  Along 
the  tunnels  of  mimosa  it  went  like  a  foaming  tide  through  a 
cavern,  roaring  towards  the  mountains.  It  returned  and  swept 
about  the  narrow  streets,  eddying  at  the  corners,  beating  upon 
the  palm-wood  doors,  behind  which  the  painted  dancing-girls 
were  cowering,  cold  under  their  pigments  and  their  heavy  jewels, 
their  red  hands  trembling  and  clasping  one  another,  clamouring 
about  the  minarets  of  the  mosques  on  which  the  frightened  doves 
were  sheltering,  shaking  the  fences  that  shut  in  the  gazelles  in 
their  pleasaunce,  tearing  at  the  great  statue  of  the  Cardinal  that 
faced  it  resolutely,  holding  up  the  double  cross  as  if  to  exorcise 
it,  battering  upon  the  tall,  white  tower  on  whose  summit  Domini 
had  first  spoken  with  Androvsky,  raging  through  the  alleys  of 
Count  Anteoni's  garden,  the  arcades  of  his  villa,  the  window- 
spaces  of  the  fumoir,  from  whose  walls  it  tore  down  frantically 
the  purple  petals  of  the  bougainvillea  and  dashed  them,  like 
enemies  defeated,  upon  the  quivering  paths  which  were  made  of 
its  own  body. 


274  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

Everywhere  in  the  oasis  it  came  with  a  lust  to  kill,  but  surely 
its  deepest  enmity  was  concentrated  upon  the  Catholic  Church. 

There,  despite  the  tempest,  people  were  huddled,  drawn 
together  not  so  much  by  the  ceremony  that  was  to  take  place 
within  as  by  the  desire  to  see  the  departure  of  an  unusual 
caravan.  In  every  desert  centre  news  is  propagated  with  a 
rapidity  seldom  equalled  in  the  home  of  civilisation.  It  runs 
from  mouth  to  mouth  like  fire  along  straw.  And  Batouch,  in 
his  glory,  had  not  been  slow  to  speak  of  the  wonders  prepared 
under  his  superintendence  to  make  complete  the  desert  journey 
of  his  mistress  and  Androvsky.  The  main  part  of  the  camp  had 
already  gone  forward,  and  must  have  reached  Arba,  the  first 
halting  stage  outside  Beni-Mora;  tents,  the.  horses  for  the 
Roumis,  the  mules  to  carry  necessary  baggage,  the  cooking 
utensils  and  the  guard  dogs.  But  the  Roumis  themselves  were 
to  depart  from  the  church  on  camel-back  directly  the  marriage 
was  accomplished.  Domini,  who  had  a  native  hatred  of  every- 
thing that  savoured  of  ostentation,  had  wished  for  a  tiny  expedi- 
tion, and  would  gladly  have  gone  out  into  the  desert  with  but 
one  tent,  Batouch  and  a  servant  to  do  the  cooking.  But  the 
journey  was  to  be  long  and  indefinite,  an  aimless  wandering 
through  the  land  of  liberty  towards  the  south,  without  fixed 
purpose  or  time  of  returning.  She  knew  nothing  of  what  was 
necessary  for  such  a  journey,  and  tired  of  ceaseless  argument, 
and  too  much  occupied  with  joy  to  burden  herself  with  detail, 
at  last  let  Batouch  have  his  way. 

"  I  leave  it  to  you,  Batouch,"  she  said.  "  But,  remember,  as 
few  people  and  beasts  as  possible.  And  as  you  say  we  must  have 
camels  for  certain  parts  of  the  journey,  we  will  travel  the  first 
stage  on  camel-back." 

Consciously  she  helped  to  fulfil  the  prediction  of  the  Diviner, 
and  then  she  left  Batouch  free. 

Now  outside  the  church,  shrouded  closely  in  hoods  and  haiks, 
grey  and  brown  bundles  with  staring  eyes,  the  desert  men  were 
huddled  against  the  church  wall  in  the  wind.  Hadj  was  there, 
and  Sma'in,  sheltering  in  his  burnous  roses  from  Count  Anteoni's 
garden.  Larbi  had  come  with  his  flute  ajid  the  perfume-seller 
from  his  black  bazaar.  For  Domini  had  bought  perfumes  from 
him  on  her  last  day  in  Beni-Mora.  Most  of  Count  Anteoni's 
gardeners  had  assembled.  They  looked  upon  the  Roumi  lady, 
who  rode  magnificently,  but  who  could  dream  as  they  dreamed, 
too,  as  a  friend.  Had  she  not  haunted  the  alleys  where  they 
worked  and  idled  till  they  had  learned  to  expect  her,  and  to  miss 


THE   JOURNEY  275 

her  when  she  did  not  come?  And  with  those  whom  Domini 
knew  were  assembled  their  friends,  and  their  friends'  friends, 
men  of  Beni-Mora,  men  from  the  near  oasis,  and  also  many 
of  those  desert  wanderers  who  drift  in  daily  out  of  the  sands  to 
the  centres  of  buying  and  selling,  barter  their  goods  for  the  goods 
of  the  South,  or  sell  their  loads  of  dates  for  money,  and,  having 
enjoyed  the  dissipation  of  the  cafes  and  of  the  dancing-houses, 
drift  away  again  into  the  pathless  wastes  which  are  their  home. 

Few  of  the  French  population  had  ventured  out,  and  the 
church  itself  was  almost  deserted  when  the  hour  for  the  wedding 
drew  nigh. 

The  priest  came  from  his  little  house,  bending  forward  against 
the  wind,  his  eyes  partially  protected  from  the  driving  sand  by 
blue  spectacles.  His  face,  which  was  habitually  grave,  to-day 
looked  sad  and  stern,  like  the  face  of  a  man  about  to  perform  a 
task  that  was  against  his  inclination,  even  perhaps  against  his 
conscience.  He  glanced  at  the  waiting  Arabs  and  hastened  into 
the  church,  taking  off  his  spectacles  as  he  did  so,  and  wiping  his 
eyes,  which  were  red  from  the  action  of  the  sand-grains,  with  a 
silk  pocket-handkerchief.  When  he  reached  the  sacristy  he  shut 
himself  into  it  alone  for  a  moment.  He  sat  down  on  a  chair 
and,  leaning  his  arms  upon  the  wooden  table  that  stood  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  bent  forward  and  stared  before  him  at  the 
wall  opposite,  listening  to  the  howling  of  the  wind. 

Father  Roubier  had  an  almost  passionate  affection  for  his 
little  church  of  Beni-Mora.  So  long  and  ardently  had  he  prayed 
and  taught  in  it,  so  often  had  he  passed  the  twilight  hours  in  it 
alone  wrapped  in  religious  reveries,  or  searching  his  conscience 
for  the  shadows  of  sinful  thoughts,  that  it  had  become  to  him  as 
a  friend,  and  more  than  a  friend.  He  thought  of  it  sometimes  as 
his  confessor  and  sometimes  as  his  child.  Its  stones  were  to  him 
as  flesh  and  blood,  its  altars  as  lips  that  whispered  consolation  in 
answer  to  his  prayers.  The  figures  of  its  saints  were  heavenly 
companions.  In  its  ugliness  he  perceived  only  beauty,  in  its 
tawdriness  only  the  graces  that  are  sweet  offerings  to  God.  The 
love  that,  had  he  not  been  a  priest,  he  might  have  given  to  a 
woman  he  poured  forth  upon  his  church,  and  with  it  that  other 
love  which,  had  it  been  the  design  of  his  Heavenly  Father,  would 
have  fitted  him  for  the  ascetic,  yet  impassioned,,  life  of  an  ardent 
and  devoted  monk.  To  defend  this  consecrated  building  against 
outrage  he  would,  without  hesitation,  have  given  his  last  drop  of 
blood.  And  now  he  was  to  perform  in  it  an  act  against  which 
his  whole  nature  revolted;  he  was  to  join  indissolubly  the 


276  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

lives  of  these  two  strangers  who  had  come  to  Beni-Mora — 
Domini  Enfilden  and  Boris  Androvsky.  He  was  to  put  on  the 
surplice  and  white  stole,  to  say  the  solemn  and  irreparable  "  Ego 
Jungo,"  to  sprinkle  the  ring  with  holy  water  and  bless  it. 

As  he  sat  there  alone,  listening  to  the  howling  of  the  storm 
outside,  he  went  mentally  through  the  coming  ceremony.  He 
thought  of  the  wonderful  grace  and  beauty  of  the  prayers  of 
benediction,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  to  pronounce  them  with 
his  lips,  while  his  nature  revolted  against  his  own  utterance,  was 
to  perform  a  shameful  act,  was  to  offer  an  insult  to  this  little 
church  he  loved. 

Yet  how  could  he  help  performing  this  act?  He  knew  that 
he  would  do  it.  Within  a  few  minutes  he  would  be  standing 
before  the  altar,  he  would  be  looking  into  the  faces  of  this  man 
and  woman  whose  love  he  was  called  upon  to  consecrate.  He 
would  consecrate  it,  and  they  would  go  out  from  him  into  the 
desert  man  and  wife.  They  would  be  lost  to  his  sight  in  the 
town. 

His  eye  fell  upon  a  silver  crucifix  that  was  hanging  upon  the 
wall  in  front  of  him.  He  was  not  a  very  imaginative  man,  not 
a  man  given  to  fancies,  a  dreamer  of  dreams  more  real  to  him 
than  life,  or  a  seer  of  visions.  But  to-day  he  was  stirred,  and 
perhaps  the  unwonted  turmoil  of  his  mind  acted  subtly  upon  his 
nervous  system.  Afterward  he  felt  certain  that  it  must  have 
been  so,  for  in  no  other  way  could  he  account  for  a  fantasy  that 
beset  him  at  this  moment. 

As  he  looked  at  the  crucifix  there  came  against  the  church  a 
more  furious  beating  of  the  wind,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
Christ  upon  the  crucifix  shuddered. 

He  saw  it  shudder.  He  started,  leaned  across  the  table  and 
stared  at  the  crucifix  with  eyes  that  were  full  of  an  amazement 
that  was  mingled  with  horror.  Then  he  got  up,  crossed  the 
room  and  touched  the  crucifix  with  his  finger.  As  he  did  so,  the 
acolyte,  whose  duty  it  was  to  help  him  to  robe,  knocked  at  the 
sacristy  door.  The  sharp  noise  recalled  him  to  himself.  He 
knew  that  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  been  the  slave  of  an 
optical  delusion.  He  knew  it,  and  yet  he  could  not  banish  the 
feeling  that  God  himself  was  averse  from  the  act  that  he  was  on 
the  point  of  committing  in  this  church  that  confronted  Islam, 
that  God  himself  shuddered  as  surely  even  He,  the  Creator, 
must  shudder  at  some  of  the  actions  of  his  creatures.  And  this 
feeling  added  immensely  to  the  distress  of  the  priest's  mind.  In 
performing  this  ceremony  he  now  had  the  dreadful  sensation  that 


THE   JOURNEY  277 

he  was  putting  himself  into  direct  antagonism  with  God.  His 
instinctive  horror  of  Androvsky  had  never  been  so  great  as  it  was 
to-day.  In  vain  he  had  striven  to  conquer  it,  to  draw  near  to 
this  man  who  roused  all  the  repulsion  of  his  nature.  His  efforts 
had  been  useless.  He  had  prayed  to  be  given  the  sympathy  for 
this  man  that  the  true  Christian  ought  to  feel  towards  every 
human  being,  even  the  most  degraded.  But  he  felt  that  his 
prayers  had  not  been  answered.  With  every  day  his  antipathy 
for  Androvsky  increased.  Yet  he  was  entirely  unable  to  ground 
it  upon  any  definite  fact  in  Androvsky's  character.  He  did  not 
know  that  character.  The  man  was  as  much  a  mystery  to  him 
as  on  the  day  when  they  first  met.  And  to  this  living  mystery 
from  which  his  soul  recoiled  he  was  about  to  consign,  with  all 
the  beautiful  and  solemn  blessings  of  his  Church,  a  woman  whose 
character  he  respected,  whose  innate  purity,  strength  and  nobility 
he  had  quickly  divined,  and  no  less  quickly  learned  to  love. 

It  was  a  bitter,  even  a  horrible,  moment  to  him. 

The  little  acolyte,  a  French  boy,  son  of  the  postmaster  of 
Beni-Mora,  was  startled  by  the  sight  of  the  Father's  face  when 
he  opened  the  sacristy  door.  He  had  never  before  seen  such  an 
expression  of  almost  harsh  pain  in  those  usually  kind  eyes,  and 
he  drew  back  from  the  threshold  like  one  afraid.  His  movement 
recalled  the  priest  to  a  sharp  consciousness  of  the  necessities  of 
the  moment,  and  with  a  strong  effort  he  conquered  his  pain 
sufficiently  to  conceal  all  outward  expression  of  it.  He  smiled 
gently  at  the  little  boy  and  said : 

"Is  it  time?" 

The  child  looked  reassured. 

"  Yes,  Father." 

He  came  into  the  sacristy  and  went  towards  the  cupboard 
where  the  vestments  were  kept,  passing  the  silver  crucifix.  As 
he  did  so  he  glanced  at  it.  He  opened  the  cupboard,  then  stood 
for  a  moment  and  again  turned  his  eyes  to  the  Christ.  The 
Father  watched  him. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at,  Paul?  "  he  asked. 

"  Nothing,  Father,"  the  boy  replied,  with  a  sudden  expression 
of  reluctance  that  was  almost  obstinate. 

And  he  began  to  take  the  priest's  robes  out  of  the  cupboard. 

Just  then  the  wind  wailed  again  furiously  about  the  church, 
and  the  crucifix  fell  down  upon  the  floor  of  the  sacristy. 

The  priest  started  forward,  picked  it  up,  and  stood  with  it  in 
his  hand.  He  glanced  at  the  wall,  and  saw  at  once  that  the  nail 
to  which  the  crucifix  had  been  fastened  had  come  out  of  its  hole. 


278  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

A  flake  of  plaster  had  been  detached,  perhaps  some  days  ago, 
and  the  hole  had  become  too  large  to  retain  the  nail.  The  ex- 
planation of  the  matter  was  perfect,  simple  and  comprehensible. 
Yet  the  priest  felt  as  if  a  catastrophe  had  just  taken  place.  As 
he  stared  at  the  cross  he  heard  a  little  noise  near  him.  The 
acolyte  was  crying. 

"  Why,  Paul,  what's  the  matter?  "  he  said. 

"Why  did  it  do  that?"  exclaimed  the  boy,  as  if  alarmed. 
"Why  did  it  do  that?" 

"  Perhaps  it  was  the  wind.  Everything  is  shaking.  Come, 
come,  my  child,  there  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of." 

He  laid  the  crucifix  on  the  table.  Paul  dried  his  eyes  with 
his  fists. 

"  I  don't  like  to-day,"  he  said.     "  I  don't  like  to-day." 

The  priest  patted  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  The  weather  has  upset  you,"  he  said,  smiling. 

But  the  nervous  behaviour  of  the  child  deepened  strangely  his 
own  sense  of  apprehension.  When  he  had  robed  he  waited 
for  the  arrival  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom.  There  was  to  be 
no  mass,  and  no  music  except  the  Wedding  March,  which  the 
harmonium  player,  a  Marseillais  employed  in  the  date-packing 
trade,  insisted  on  performing  to  do  honour  to  Mademoiselle 
Enfilden,  who  had  taken  such  an  interest  in  the  music  of  the 
church.  Androvsky,  as  the  priest  had  ascertained,  had  been 
brought  up  in  the  Catholic  religion,  but,  when  questioned,  he  had 
said  quietly  that  he  was  no  longer  a  practising  Catholic  and  that 
he  never  went  to  confession.  Under  these  circumstances  it  was 
not  possible  to  have  a  nuptial  mass.  The  service  would  be  short 
and  plain,  and  the  priest  was  glad  that  this  was  so.  Presently 
the  harmonium  player  came  in. 

"  I  may  play  my  loudest  to-day,  Father,"  he  said,  "  but  no  one 
will  hear  me." 

He  laughed,  settled  the  pin — Joan  of  Arc's  face  in  metal — • 
in  his  azure  blue  necktie,  and  added: 

"Nom  d'un  chien,  the  wind's  a  cruel  wedding  guest!  " 

The  priest  nodded  without  speaking. 

"  Would  you  believe,  Father,"  the  man  continued,  "  that 
Mademoiselle  and  her  husband  are  going  to  start  for  Arba  from 
the  church  door  in  all  this  storm!  Batouch  is  getting  the 
palanquin  on  to  the  camel.  How  they  will  ever " 

"  Hush !  "  said  the  priest,  holding  up  a  warning  finger. 

This  idle  chatter  displeased  him  in  the  church,  but  he  had 
another  reason  for  wishing  to  stop  the  conversation.  It  re- 


THE   JOURNEY  279 

newed  his  dread  to  hear  of  the  projected  journey,  and  made  him 
see,  as  in  a  shadowy  vision,  Domini  Enfilden's  figure  disappear- 
ing into  the  windy  desolation  of  the  desert  protected  by  the  living 
mystery  he  hated.  Yesr  at  this  moment,  he  no  longer  denied  it 
to  himself.  There  was  something  in  Androvsky  that  he  actually 
hated  with  his  whole  soul,  hated  even  in  his  church,  at  the  very 
threshold  of  the  altar  where  stood  the  tabernacle  containing  the 
sacred  Host.  As  he  thoroughly  realised  this  for  a  moment  he 
was  shocked  at  himself,  recoiled  mentally  from  his  own  feeling. 
But  then  something  within  him  seemed  to  rise  up  and  say, 
"  Perhaps  it  is  because  you  are  near  to  the  Host  that  you  hate 
this  man.  Perhaps  you  are  right  to  hate  him  when  he  draws 
nigh  to  the  body  of  Christ." 

Nevertheless  when,  some  minutes  later,  he  stood  within  the 
altar  rails  and  saw  the  face  of  Domini,  he  was  conscious  of 
another  thought,  that  came  through  his  mind,  dark  with  doubt, 
like  a  ray  of  gold :  "  Can  I  be  right  in  hating  what  this  good 
woman — this  woman  whose  confession  I  have  received,  whose 
heart  I  know — can  I  be  right  in  hating  what  she  loves,  in  fearing 
what  she  trusts,  in  secretly  condemning  what  she  openly  en- 
thrones?" And  almost  in  despite  of  himself  he  felt  reassured 
for  an  instant,  even  happy  in  the  thought  of  what  he  was 
about  to  do. 

Domini's  face  at  all  times  suggested  strength.  The  mental 
and  emotional  power  of  her  were  forcibly  expressed,  too,  through 
her  tall  and  athletic  body,  which  was  full  of  easy  grace,  but  full, 
too,  of  well-knit  firmness.  To-day  she  looked  not  unlike  a 
splendid  Amazon  who  could  have  been  a  splendid  nun  had  she 
entered  into  religion.  As  she  stood  there  by  Androvsky,  simply 
dressed  for  the  wild  journey  that  was  before  her,  the  slight  hint 
in  her  personality  of  a  Spartan  youth,  that  stamped  her  with  a 
very  definite  originality,  was  blended  with,  even  transfigured  by, 
a  womanliness  so  intense  as  to  be  almost  fierce,  a  womanliness 
that  had  the  fervour,  the  glowing  vigour  of  a  glory  that  had 
suddenly  become  fully  aware  of  itself,  and  of  all  the  deeds  that 
it  could  not  only  conceive,  but  do.  She  was  triumph  embodied 
in  the  flesh,  not  the  triumph  that  is  a  shool-bully,  but  that 
spreads  wings,  conscious  at  last  that  the  human  being  has  kinship 
with  the  angels,  and  need  not,  should  not,  wait  for  death  to  seek 
bravely  their  comradeship.  She  was  love  triumphant,  woman 
utterly  fearless  because  instinctively  aware  that  she  was  fulfilling 
her  divine  mission. 

As  he  gazed  at  her  the  priest  had  a  strange  thought — of  how 


280  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

Christ's  face  must  have  looked  when  he  said,  "  Lazarus,  come 
forth!" 

Androvsky  stood  by  her,  but  the  priest  did  not  look  at  him. 

The  wind  roared  round  the  church,  the  narrow  windows 
rattled,  and  the  clouds  of  sand  driven  against  them  made  a 
pattering  as  of  ringers  tapping  frantically  upon  the  glass.  The 
buff-coloured  curtains  trembled,  and  the  dusty  pink  ribands  tied 
round  the  ropes  of  the  chandeliers  shook  incessantly  to  and  fro, 
as  if  striving  to  escape  and  to  join  the  multitudes  of  torn  and 
disfigured  things  that  were  swept  through  space  by  the  breath 
of  the  storm.  Beyond  the  windows,  vaguely  seen  at  moments 
through  the  clouds  of  sand,  the  outlines  of  the  palm  leaves 
wavered,  descended,  rose,  darted  from  side  to  side,  like  hands  of 
the  demented. 

Suzanne,  who  was  one  of  the  witnesses,  trembled,  and  moved 
her  full  lips  nervously.  She  disapproved  utterly  of  her  mistress' 
wedding,  and  still  more  of  a  honeymoon  in  the  desert.  For 
herself  she  did  not  care,  very  shortly  she  was  going  to  marry 
Monsieur  Helmuth,  the  important  person  in  livery  who  ac- 
companied the  hotel  omnibus  to  the  station,  and  meanwhile  she 
was  to  remain  at  Beni-Mora  under  the  chaperonage  of  Madame 
Armande,  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel.  But  it  shocked  her  that 
a  mistress  of  hers,  and  a  member  of  the  English  aristocracy, 
should  be  married  in  a  costume  suitable  for  a  camel  ride,  and 
should  start  off  to  go  to  le  Bon  Dieu  alone  knew  where,  shut  up 
in  a  palanquin  like  any  black  woman  covered  with  lumps  of  coral 
and  bracelets  like  handcuffs. 

The  other  witnesses  were  the  mayor  of  Beni-Mora,  a  middle- 
aged  doctor,  who  wore  the  conventional  evening-dress  of  French 
ceremony,  and  looked  as  if  the  wind  had  made  him  as  sleepy  as 
a  bear  on  the  point  of  hibernating,  and  the  son  of  Madame 
Armande,  a  lively  young  man,  with  a  bullet  head  and  eager, 
black  eyes.  The  latter  took  a  keen  interest  in  the  ceremony, 
but  the  mayor  blinked  pathetically,  and  occasionally  rubbed  his 
large  hooked  nose  as  if  imploring  it  to  keep  his  whole  person 
from  drooping  down  into  a  heavy  doze. 

The  priest,  speaking  in  a  conventional  voice  that  was  strangely 
inexpressive  of  his  inward  emotion,  asked  Androvsky  and  Domini 
whether  they  would  take  each  other  for  wife  and  husband,  and 
listened  to  their  replies.  Androvsky's  voice  sounded  to  him  hard 
and  cold  as  ice  when  it  replied,  and  suddenly  he  thought  of  the 
storm  as  raging  in  some  northern  land  over  snow-bound  wastes 
whose  scanty  trees  were  leafless.  But  Domini's  voice  was  clear, 


THE   JOURNEY  281 

and  warm  as  the  sun  that  would  shine  again  over  the  desert  when 
the  storm  was  past.  The  mayor,  constraining  himself  to  keep 
awake  a  little  longer,  gave  Domrni  away,  while  Suzanne  dropped 
tears  into  a  pocket-handkerchief  edged  with  rose-coloured  frill- 
ing, the  gift  of  Monsieur  Helmuth.  Then,  when  the  troths  had 
been  plighted  in  the  midst  of  a  more  passionate  roaring  of  the 
wind,  the  priest,  conquering  a  terrible  inward  reluctance  that 
beset  him  despite  his  endeavour  to  feel  detached  and  formal, 
merely  a  priest  engaged  in  a  ceremony  that  it  was  his  office  to 
carry  out,  but  in  which  he  had  no  personal  interest,  spoke  the 
fateful  words: 

"  Ego  conjungo  vos  in  matrimonium  in  nomine  Patris  et  Filii 
et  Spiritus  Sanctl.  Amen" 

He  said  this  without  looking  at  the  man  and  woman  who 
stood  before  him,  the  man  on  the  right  hand  and  the  woman  on 
the  left,  but  when  he  lifted  his  hand  to  sprinkle  them  with  holy 
water  he  could  not  forbear  glancing  at  them,  and  he  saw  Domini 
as  a  shining  radiance,  but  Androvsky  as  a  thing  of  stone.  With 
a  movement  that  seemed  to  the  priest  sinister  in  its  oppressed 
deliberation,  Androvsky  placed  gold  and  silver  upon  the  book 
and  the  marriage  ring. 

The  priest  spoke  again,  slowly,  in  the  uproar  of  the  wind,  after 
blessing  the  ring : 

"  Adjutorium  nostrum  in  nomine  Domini" 

After  the  reply  the  "  Domine,  exaudi  orationem  meant"  the 
" Et  clamor"  the  " Dominus  vobiscum"  and  the  " Et  cum 
spiritu  tuo"  the  "  Oremus"  and  the  prayer  following,  he  sprin- 
kled the  ring  with  holy  water  in  the  form  of  a  cross  and  gave  it 
to  Androvsky  to  give  with  gold  and  silver  to  Domini.  Androvsky 
took  the  ring,  repeated  the  formula,  "  With  this  ring,"  etc.,  then 
still,  as  it  seemed  to  the  priest,  with  the  same  sinister  delibera- 
tion, placed  it  on  the  thumb  of  the  bride's  uncovered  hand,  say- 
ing, "In  the  name  of  the  Father"  then  on  her  second  finger, 
saying,  "  Of  the  Son"  then  on  her  third  finger,  saying,  "  Of  the 
Holy  Ghost"  then  on  her  fourth  finger.  But  at  this  moment, 
when  he  should  have  said  "  Amen"  there  was  a  long  pause  of 
silence.  During  it — why  he  did  not  know — the  priest  found 
himself  thinking  of  the  saying  of  St.  Isidore  of  Seville  that  the 
ring  of  marriage  is  left  on  the  fourth  finger  of  the  bride's  hand 
because  that  finger  contains  a  vein  directly  connected  with  the 
heart. 

"  Amen" 

Androvsky  had  spoken.     The  priest  started,  and  went  on 


282  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

with  the  "  Confirma,  hoc,  Deus" .  And  from  this  point  until  the 
"Per  Christum  Dominum  nostrum,  Amen''  which,  since  there 
was  no  Mass,  closed  the  ceremony,  he  felt  more  master  of  him- 
self and  his  emotions  than  at  any  time  previously  during  this 
day.  A  sensation  of  finality,  of  the  irrevocable,  came  to  him. 
He  said  within  himself,  "  This  matter  has  passed  out  of  my 
hands  into  the  hands  of  God."  And  in  the  midst  of  the  violence 
of  the  storm  a  calm  stole  upon  his  spirit.  "  God  knows  best!  " 
he  said  within  himself.  "  God  knows  best !  " 

Those  words  and  the  state  of  feeling  that  was  linked  with 
them  were  and  had  always  been  to  him  as  mighty  protecting  arms 
that  uplifted  him  above  the  beating  waves  of  the  sea  of  life.  The 
Wedding  March  sounded  when  the  priest  bade  good-bye  to  the 
husband  and  wife  whom  he  had  made  one.  He  was  able  to  do 
it  tranquilly.  He  even  pressed  Androvsky's  hand. 

"  Be  good  to  her,"  he  said.    "  She  is — she  is  a  good  woman." 

To  his  surprise  Androvsky  suddenly  wrung  his  hand  almost 
passionately,  and  the  priest  saw  that  there  were  tears  in  his 
eyes. 

That  night  the  priest  prayed  long  and  earnestly  for  all  wan- 
derers in  the  desert. 

When  Domini  and  Androvsky  came  out  from  the  church  they 
saw  vaguely  a  camel  lying  down  before  the  door,  bending  its 
head  and  snarling  fiercely.  Upon  its  back  was  a  palanquin  of 
dark-red  stuff,  with  a  roof  of  stuff  stretched  upon  strong,  curved 
sticks,  and  curtains  which  could  be  drawn  or  undrawn  at  pleas- 
ure. The  desert  men  crowded  about  it  like  eager  phantoms  in 
the  wind,  half  seen  in  the  driving  mist  of  sand.  Clinging  to 
Androvsky's  arm,  Domini  struggled  forward  to  the  camel.  As 
she  did  so,  Smai'n,  unfolding  for  an  instant  his  burnous,  pressed 
into  her  hands  his  mass  of  roses.  She  thanked  him  with  a  smile 
he  scarcely  saw  and  a  word  that  was  borne  away  upon  the  wind. 
At  Larbi's  lips  she  saw  the  little  flute  and  his  thick  fingers  flut- 
tering upon  the  holes.  She  knew  that  he  was  playing  his  love- 
song  for  her,  but  she  could  not  hear  it  except  in  her  heart.  The 
perfume-seller  sprinkled  her  gravely  with  essence,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment she  felt  as  if  she  were  again  in  his  dark  bazaar,  and  seemed 
to  catch  among  the  voices  of  the  storm  the  sound  of  men  mut- 
tering prayers  to  Allah  as  in  the  mosque  of  Sidi-Zazan. 

Then  she  was  in  the  palanquin  with  Androvsky  close  beside 
her. 

At  this  moment  Batouch  took  hold  of  the  curtains  of  the 
palanquin  to  draw  them  close,  but  she  put  out  her  hand  and 


THE  JOURNEY  283 

stopped  him.  She  wanted  to  see  the  last  of  the  church,  of  the 
tormented  gardens  she  had  learnt  to  love. 

He  looked  astonished,  but  yielded  to  her  gesture,  and  told  the 
camel-driver  to  make  the  animal  rise  to  its  feet.  The  driver 
took  his  stick  and  plied' it,  crying  out,  "  A-ah!  A-ah!  "  The 
camel  turned  its  head  towards  him,  showing  its  teeth,  and  snarl- 
ing with  a  sort  of  dreary  passion. 

"  A-ah !  "  shouted  the  driver.     "  A-ah  I    A-ah  I  " 

The  camel  began  to  get  up. 

As  it  did  so,  from  the  shrouded  group  of  desert  men  one 
started  forward  to  the  palanquin,  throwing  off  his  burnous  and 
gesticulating  with  thin  naked  arms,  as  if  about  to  commit  some 
violent  act.  It  was  the  sand-diviner.  Made  fantastic  and 
unreal  by  the  whirling  sand  grains,  Domini  saw  his  lean  face 
pitted  with  small-pox ;  his  eyes,  blazing  with  an  intelligence  that 
was  demoniacal,  fixed  upon  her;  the  long  wound  that  stretched 
from  his  cheek  to  his  forehead.  The  pleading  that  had  been 
mingled  with  the  almost  tyrannical  command  of  his  demeanour 
had  vanished  now.  He  looked  ferocious,  arbitrary,  like  a  savage 
of  genius  full  of  some  frightful  message  of  warning  or  rebuke. 
As  the  camel  rose  he  cried  aloud  some  words  in  Arabic, 
Domini  heard  his  voice,  but  could  not  understand  the  words. 
Laying  his  hands  on  the  stuff  of  the  palanquin  he  shouted  again, 
then  took  away  his  hands  and  shook  them  above  his  head  towards 
the  desert,  still  staring  at  Domini  with  his  fanatical  eyes. 

The  wind  shrieked,  the  sand  grains  whirled  in  spirals  about 
his  body,  the  camel  began  to  move  away  from  the  church  slowly 
towards  the  village. 

"  A-ah !  "  cried  the  camel-driver.     "  A-ah !  " 

In  the  storm  his  call  sounded  like  a  wail  of  despair. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

As  the  voice  of  the  Diviner  fainted  away  on  the  wind,  and  the 
vision  of  his  wounded  face  and  piercing  eyes  was  lost  in  the 
whirling  sand  grains,  Androvsky  stretched  out  his  hand  and 
drew  together  the  heavy  curtains  of  the  palanquin.  The  world 
was  shut  out.  They  were  alone  for  the  first  time  as  man  and 
wife;  moving  deliberately  on  this  beast  they  could  not  see,  but 
whose  slow  and  monotonous  gait  swung  them  gently  to  and  fro, 
out  from  the  last  traces  of  civilisation  into  the  life  of  the  sands. 
With  each  soft  step  the  camel  took  they  went  a  little  farther 


284  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

from  Beni-Mora,  came  a  little  nearer  to  that  liberty  of  which 
Domini  had  sometimes  dreamed,  to  the  smiling  eyes  and  the 
lifted  spheres  of  fire. 

She  shut  her  eyes  now.  She  did  not  want  to  see  her  husband 
or  to  touch  his  hand.  She  did  not  want  to  speak.  She  only 
wanted  to  feel  in  the  uttermost  depths  of  her  spirit  this  move- 
ment, steady  and  persistent,  towards  the  goal  of  her  earthly 
desires,  to  realise  absolutely  the  marvellous  truth  that  after  years 
of  lovelessness,  and  a  dreaminess  more  benumbing  than  acute 
misery,  happiness  more  intense  than  any  she  had  been  able  to  con- 
ceive of  in  her  moments  of  greatest  yearning  was  being  poured 
into  her  heart,  that  she  was  being  taken  to  the  place  where  she 
would  be  with  the  one  human  being  whose  presence  blotted  out 
even  the  memory  of  the  false  world  and  gave  to  her  the  true. 
And  whereas  in  the  dead  years  she  had  sometimes  been  afraid 
of  feeling  too  much  the  emptiness  and  the  desolation  of  her  life, 
she  was  now  afraid  of  feeling  too  little  its  fulness  and  its 
splendour,  was  afraid  of  some  day  looking  back  to  this  superb 
moment  of  her  earthly  fate,  and  being  conscious  that  she  had 
not  grasped  its  meaning  till  it  was  gone,  that  she  had  done  that 
most  terrible  of  all  things — realised  that  she  had  been  happy  to 
the  limits  of  her  capacity  for  happiness  only  when  her  happiness 
was  numbered  with  the  past. 

But  could  that  ever  be  ?  Was  Time,  such  Time  as  this,  not 
Eternity?  Could  such  earthly  things  as  this  intense  joy  ever 
have  been  and  no  longer  be  ?  It  seemed  to  her  that  it  could  not 
be  so.  She  felt  like  one  who  held  Eternity's  hand,  and  went  out 
with  that  great  guide  into  the  endlessness  of  supreme  perfection. 
For  her,  just  then,  the  Creator's  scheme  was  rounded  to  a  flaw- 
less circle.  All  things  fell  into  order,  stars  and  men,  the  silent 
growing  things,  the  seas,  the  mountains  and  the  plains,  fell  into 
order  like  a  vast  choir  to  obey  the  command  of  the  canticle: 
"  Benedicite,  omnia  opera!  " 

"  Bless  ye  the  Lord !  "  The  roaring  of  the  wind  about  the 
palanquin  became  the  dominant  voice  of  this  choir  in  Domini's 
ears. 

"  Bless  ye  the  Lord!  "  It  was  obedient,  not  as  the  slave,  but 
as  the  free  will  is  obedient,  as  her  heart,  which  joined  its  voice 
with  this  wind  of  the  desert  was  obedient,  because  it  gloriously 
chose  with  all  its  powers,  passions,  aspirations  to  be  so.  The 
real  obedience  is  only  love  fulfilling  its  last  desire,  and  this  great 
song  was  the  fulfilling  of  the  last  desire  of  all  created  things. 
Domini  knew  that  she  did  not  realise  the  joy  of  this  moment  of 


THE   JOURNEY  285 

her  life  now  when  she  felt  no  longer  that  she  was  a  woman,  but 
only  that  she  was  a  living  praise  winging  upward  to  God. 

A  warm,  strong  hand  clasped  hers.  She  opened  her  eyes. 
In  the  dim  twilight  of  the  palanquin  she  saw  the  darkness  of 
Androvsky's  tall  figure  sitting  in  the  crouched  attitude  rendered 
necessary  by  the  peculiar  seat,  and  swaying  slightly  to  the  move- 
ment of  the  camel.  The  light  was  so  obscure  that  she  could  not 
see  his  eyes  or  clearly  discern  his  features,  but  she  felt  that  he 
was  gazing  at  her  shadowy  figure,  that  his  mind  was  passionately 
at  work.  Had  he,  too,  been  silently  praising  God  for  his  happi- 
ness, and  was  he  now  wishing  the  body  to  join  in  the  soul's 
delight  ? 

She  left  her  hand  in  his  passively.  The  sense  of  her  woman- 
hood, lost  for  a  moment  in  the  ecstasy  of  worship,  had  returned 
to  her,  but  with  a  new  and  tremendous  meaning  which  seemed 
to  change  her  nature.  Androvsky  forcibly  pressed  her  hand  with 
his,  let  it  go,  then  pressed  it  again,  repeating  the  action  with  a 
regularity  that  seemed  suggested  by  some  guidance.  She  imag- 
ined him  pressing  her  hand  each  time  his  heart  pulsed.  She  did 
not  want  to  return  the  pressure.  As  she  felt  his  hand  thus  clos- 
ing and  unclosing  over  hers,  she  was  conscious  that  she,  who  in 
their  intercourse  had  played  a  dominant  part,  who  had  even 
deliberately  brought  about  that  intercourse  by  her  action  on  the 
tower,  now  longed  to  be  passive  and,  forgetting  her  own  power 
and  the  strength  and  force  of  her  nature,  to  lose  herself  in  the 
greater  strength  and  force  of  this  man  to  whom  she  had  given 
herself.  Never  before  had  she  wished  to  be  anything  but  strong. 
Nor  did  she  desire  weakness  now,  but  only  that  his  nature  should 
rise  above  hers  with  eagle's  wings,  that  when  she  looked  'up  she 
should  see  him,  never  when  she  looked  down.  She  thought  that 
to  see  him  below  her  would  kill  her,  and  she  opened  her  lips  to 
say  so.  But  something  in  the  windy  darkness  kept  her  silent. 
The  heavy  curtains  of  the  palanquin  shook  perpetually,  and  the 
tall  wooden  rods  on  which  they  were  slung  creaked,  making  a 
small,  incessant  noise  like  a  complaining,  which  joined  itself  with 
the  more  distant  but  louder  noise  made  by  the  leaves  of  the  thou- 
sands of  palm  trees  dashed  furiously  together.  From  behind 
came  the  groaning  of  one  of  the  camels,  borne  on  the  gusts  of 
the  wind,  and  faint  sounds  of  the  calling  voices  of  the  Arabs 
who  accompanied  them.  It  was  not  a  time  to  speak. 

She  wondered  where  they  were,  in  what  part  of  the  oasis, 
whether  they  had  yet  gained  the  beginning  of  the  great  route 
which  had  always  fascinated  her,  and  which  was  now  the  road  to 


286  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

the  goal  of  all  her  earthly  desires.  But  there  was  nothing  to  tell 
her.  She  travelled  in  a  world  of  dimness  and  the  roar  of  wind, 
and  in  this  obscurity  and  uproar,  combined  with  perpetual 
though  slight  motion,  she  lost  all  count  of  time.  She  had  no 
idea  how  long  it  was  since  she  had  come  out  of  the  church  door 
with  Androvsky.  At  first  she  thought  it  was  only  a  few  min- 
utes, and  that  the  camels  must  be  just  coming  to  the  statue  of 
the  Cardinal.  Then  she  thought  that  it  might  be  an  hour,  even 
more;  that  Count  Anteoni's  garden  was  long  since  left  behind, 
and  that  they  were  passing,  perhaps,  along  the  narrow  streets  of 
the  village  of  old  Beni-Mora,  and  nearing  the  edge  of  the  oasis. 
But  even  in  this  confusion  of  mind  she  felt  that  something  would 
tell  her  when  the  last  palms  had  vanished  in  the  sand  mist  and 
the  caravan  came  out  into  the  desert.  The  sound  of  the  wind 
would  surely  be  different  when  they  met  it  on  the  immense  flats, 
where  there  was  nothing  to  break  its  fury.  Or  even  if  it  were 
not  different,  she  felt  that  she  would  know,  that  the  desert  would 
surely  speak  to  her  in  the  moment  when,  at  last,  it  took  her  to 
itself.  It  could  not  be  that  they  would  be  taken  by  the  desert 
and  she  not  know  it.  But  she  wanted  Androvsky  to  know  it 
too.  For  she  felt  that  the  moment  when  the  desert  took  them, 
man  and  wife,  would  be  a  great  moment  in  their  lives,  greater 
even  than  that  in  which  they  met  as  they  came  into  the  blue 
country.  And  she  set  herself  to  listen,  with  a  passionate  expecta- 
tion, with  an  attention  so  close  and  determined  that  it  thrilled 
her  body,  and  even  affected  her  muscles. 

What  she  was  listening  for  was  a  rising  of  the  wind,  a  cres- 
cendo of  its  voice.  She  was  anticipating  a  triumphant  cry  from 
the  Sahara,  unlimited  power  made  audible  in  a  sound  like  the 
blowing  of  the  clarion  of  the  sands. 

Androvsky's  hand  was  still  on  hers,  but  now  it  did  not  move 
as  if  obeying  the  pulsations  of  his  heart.  It  held  hers  closely, 
warmly,  and  sent  his  strength  to  her,  and  presently,  for  an  in- 
stant, taking  her  mind  from  the  desert,  she  lost  herself  in  the 
mystery  and  the  wonder  of  human  companionship.  She  realised 
that  the  touch  of  Androvsky's  hand  on  hers  altered  for  her  her- 
self, and  the  whole  universe  as  it  was  presented  to  her,  as  she 
observed  and  felt  it.  Nothing  remained  as  it  was  when  he  di<2 
not  touch  her.  There  was  something  stupefying  in  the  thought; 
something  almost  terrible.  The  wonder  that  is  alive  in  the  tiny 
things  of  love,  and  that  makes  tremendously  important  their 
presence  in,  or  absence  from,  a  woman's  life,  took  hold  on  her 
completely  for  the  first  time,  and  set  her  forever  in  a  changed 


THE   JOURNEY  287 

world,  a  world  in  which  a  great  knowledge  ruled  instead  of  a 
great  ignorance.  With  the  consciousness  of  exactly  what  An- 
drovsky's  touch  meant  to  her  came  a  multiple  consciousness  of  a 
thousand  other  things,  all  connected  with  him  and  her  conse- 
crated relation  to  him.  She  quivered  with  understanding.  All 
the  gates  of  her  soul  were  being  opened,  and  the  white  light  of 
comprehension  of  those  things  which  make  life  splendid  and 
fruitful  was  pouring  in  upon  her.  Within  the  dim,  contained 
space  of  the  palanquin,  that  was  slowly  carried  onward  through 
the  passion  of  the  storm,  there  was  an  effulgence  of  unseen  glory 
that  grew  in  splendour  moment  by  moment.  A  woman  was 
being  born  of  a  woman,  woman  who  knew  herself  of  woman 
who  did  not  know  herself,  woman  who  henceforth  would  di- 
vinely love  her  womanhood  of  woman  who  had  often  wondered 
why  she  had  been  created  woman. 

The  words  muttered  by  the  man  of  the  sand  in  Count 
Anteoni's  garden  were  coming  true.  In  the  church  of  Beni- 
Mora  the  life  of  Domini  had  begun  more  really  than  when  her 
mother  strove  in  the  pains  of  childbirth  and  her  first  faint  cry 
answered  the  voice  of  the  world's  light  when  it  spoke  to  her. 

Slowly  the  caravan  moved  on.  The  camel-drivers  sang  low 
under  the  folds  of  their  haiks  those  mysterious  songs  of  the  East 
that  seem  the  songs  of  heat  and  solitude.  Batouch,  smothered 
in  his  burnous,  his  large  head  sunk  upon  his  chest,  slumbered 
like  a  potentate  relieved  from  cares  of  State.  Till  Arba  was 
reached  his  duty  was  accomplished.  Ali,  perched  behind  him 
on  the  camel,  stared  into  the  dimness  with  eyes  steady  and 
remote  as  those  of  a  vulture  of  the  desert.  The  houses  of  Beni- 
Mora  faded  in  the  mist  of  the  sand,  the  statue  of  the  Cardinal 
holding  the  double  cross,  the  tower  of  the  hotel,  the  shuddering 
trees  of  Count  Anteoni's  garden.  Along  the  white  blue,  which 
was  the  road  the  camels  painfully  advanced,  urged  by  the  cries 
and  the  sticks  of  the  running  drivers.  Presently  the  brown 
buildings  of  old  Beni-Mora  came  partially  into  sight,  peeping 
here  and  there  through  the  flying  sands  and  the  frantic  palm 
leaves.  The  desert  was  at  hand. 

Ali  began  to  sing,  breathing  his  song  into  the  back  of  Ba- 
touch's  hood. 


"  The  love  of  women  is  like  the  holiday  song  that  the  boy  sings  gaily 

In  the  sunny  garden — 

The  love  of  women  is  like  the  little  moon,  the  little  Tiappy  moon 

In  the  last  night  of  Ramadan. 


288  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

The  love  of  women  is  like  the  great  silence  that  steals  at  dusk 

To  kiss  the  scented   blossoms  of  the   orange  tree. 
Sit  thee  down  beneath  the  orange  tree,  O  loving  man ! 
That  thou  mayst  know  the  kiss  that  tells  the  love  of  women. 
Janat!  Janat!  Janat!" 

Batouch  stirred  uneasily,  pulled  his  hood  from  his  eyes  and 
looked  into  the  storm  gravely.  Then  he  shifted  on  the  camel's 
hump  and  said  to  Ali : 

"  How  shall  we  get  to  Arba?  The  wind  is  like  all  the 
Touaregs  going  to  battle.  And  when  we  leave  the  oasis " 

"  The  wind  is  going  down,  Batouch-ben-Brahim,"  responded 
Ali,  calmly.  "  This  evening  the  Roumis  can  lie  in  the 
tents." 

Batouch's  thick  lips  curled  with  sarcasm.  He  spat  into  the 
wind,  blew  his  nose  in  his  burnous,  and  answered: 

"  You  are  a  child,  and  can  sing  a  pretty  song,  but " 

Ali  pointed  with  his  delicate  hand  towards  the  south. 

"  Do  you  not  see  the  light  in  the  sky?  " 

Batouch  stared  before  him,  and  perceived  that  there  was  in 
truth  a  lifting  of  the  darkness  beyond,  a  whiteness  growing 
where  the  desert  lay. 

"As  we  come  into  the  desert  the  wind  will  fall,"  said  Ali; 
and  again  he  began  to  sing  to  himself : 

"Janat!    Janat!    Janat!" 

Domini  could  not  see  the  light  in  the  south,  and  no  premoni- 
tion warned  her  of  any  coming  abatement  of  the  storm.  Once 
more  she  had  begun  to  listen  to  the  roaring  of  the  wind  and  to 
wait  for  the  larger  voice  of  the  desert,  for  the  triumphant  clarion 
of  the  sands  that  would  announce  to  her  her  entry  with  Androv- 
sky  into  the  life  of  the  wastes.  Again  she  personified  the  Sahara, 
but  now  more  vividly  than  ever  before.  In  the  obscurity  she 
seemed  to  see  it  far  away,  like  a  great  heroic  figure,  waiting  for 
her  and  her  passion,  waiting  in  a  region  of  gold  and  silken  airs  at 
the  back  of  the  tempest  to  crown  her  life  with  a  joy  wide  as  its 
dreamlike  spaces,  to  teach  her  mind  the  inner  truths  that  lie 
beyond  the  crowded  ways  of  men  and  to  open  her  heart  to  the 
most  profound  messages  of  Nature. 

She  listened,  holding  Androvsky's  hand,  and  she  felt  that  he 
was  listening  too,  with  an  intensity  strong  as  her  own,  or 
stronger.  Presently  his  hand  closed  upon  hers  more  tightly, 
almost  hurting  her  physically.  ^As  it  did  so  she  glanced  up,  but 


THE  JOURNEY  289 

not  at  him,  and  noticed  that  the  curtains  of  the  palanquin  were 
fluttering  less  fiercely.  Once,  for  an  instant,  they  were  almost 
still.  Then  again  they  moved  as  if  tugged  by  invisible  hands; 
then  were  almost  still  once  more.  At  the  same  time  the  wind's 
voice  sank  in  her  ears  like  a  music  dropping  downward  in  a  hol- 
low place.  It  rose,  but  swiftly  sank  a  second  time  to  a  softer 
hush,  and  she  perceived  in  the  curtained  enclosure  a  faintly  grow- 
ing light  which  enabled  her  to  see,  for  the  first  time  since  she 
had  left  the  church,  her  husband's  features.  He  was  looking  at 
her  with  an  expression  of  anticipation  <  in  which  there  was  awe, 
and  she  realised  that  in  her  expectation  of  the  welcome  of  the 
desert  she  had  been  mistaken.  She  had  listened  for  the  sounding 
of  a  clarion,  but  she  was  to  be  greeted  by  a  still,  small  voice. 
She  understood  the  awe  in  her  husband's  eyes  and  shared  it.  And 
she  knew  at  once,  with  a  sudden  thrill  of  rapture,  that  in  the 
scheme  of  things  there  are  blessings  and  nobilities  undreamed  of 
by  man  and  that  must  always  come  upon  him  with  a  glorious 
shock  of  surprise,  showing  him  the  poor  faultiness  of  what  he 
had  thought  perhaps  his  most  magnificent  imaginings.  Elisha 
sought  for  the  Lord  in  the  fire  and  in  the  whirlwind ;  but  in  the 
still,  small  voice  onward  came  the  Lord. 

Incomparably  more  wonderful  than  what  she  had  waited  for 
seemed  to  her  now  this  sudden  falling  of  the  storm,  this  mystical 
voice  that  came  to  them  out  of  the  heart  of  the  sands  telling 
them  that  they  were  passing  at  last  into  the  arms  of  the  Sahara. 
The  wind  sank  rapidly.  The  light  grew  in  the  palanquin.  From 
without  the  voices  of  the  camel-drivers  and  of  Batouch  and  AH 
talking  together  reached  their  ears  distinctly.  Yet  they  remained 
silent.  It  seemed  as  if  they  feared  by  speech  to  break  the  spell 
of  the  calm  that  was  flowing  around  them,  as  if  they  feared  to 
interrupt  the  murmur  of  the  desert.  Domini  now  returned  the 
gaze  of  her  husband.  She  could  not  take  her  eyes  from  his, 
for  she  wished  him  to  read  all  the  joy  that  was  in  her  heart ;  she 
wished  him  to  penetrate  her  thoughts,  to  understand  her  desires, 
to  be  at  one  with  the  woman  who  had  been  born  on  the  eve  of 
the  passing  of  the  wind.  With  the  coming  of  this  mystic  calm 
was  coming  surely  something  else.  The  silence  was  bringing 
with  it  the  fusing  of  two  natures.  The  desert  in  this  moment 
was  drawing  together  two  souls  into  a  union  which  Time  and 
Death  would  have  no  power  to  destroy.  Presently  the  wind 
completely  died  away,  only  a  faint  breeze  fluttered  the  curtains 
of  the  palanquin,  and  the  light  that  penetrated  between  them 
here  and  there  was  no  longer  white,  but  sparkled  with  a  tiny 


288  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

The  love  of  women  is  like  the  great  silence  that  steals  at  dusk 

To  kiss  the  scented  blossoms  of  the  orange  tree. 
Sit  thee  down  beneath  the  orange  tree,  O  loving  man ! 
That  thou  mayst  know  the  kiss  that  tells  the  love  of  women. 
Janat!  Janat!  Janatl" 

Batouch  stirred  uneasily,  pulled  his  hood  from  his  eyes  and 
looked  into  the  storm  gravely.  Then  he  shifted  on  the  camel's 
hump  and  said  to  Ali : 

"  How  shall  we  get  to  Arba?  The  wind  is  like  all  the 
Touaregs  going  to  battle.  And  when  we  leave  the  oasis " 

"  The  wind  is  going  down,  Batouch-ben-Brahim,"  responded 
Ali,  calmly.  "  This  evening  the  Roumis  can  lie  in  the 
tents." 

Batouch's  thick  lips  curled  with  sarcasm.  He  spat  into  the 
wind,  blew  his  nose  in  his  burnous,  and  answered: 

"  You  are  a  child,  and  can  sing  a  pretty  song,  but " 

Ali  pointed  with  his  delicate  hand  towards  the  south. 

"  Do  you  not  see  the  light  in  the  sky?  " 

Batouch  stared  before  him,  and  perceived  that  there  was  in 
truth  a  lifting  of  the  darkness  beyond,  a  whiteness  growing 
where  the  desert  lay. 

"As  we  come  into  the  desert  the  wind  will  fall,"  said  Ali; 
and  again  he  began  to  sing  to  himself : 

"Janat!    Janat!    Janat!" 

Domini  could  not  see  the  light  in  the  south,  and  no  premoni- 
tion warned  her  of  any  coming  abatement  of  the  storm.  Once 
more  she  had  begun  to  listen  to  the  roaring  of  the  wind  and  to 
wait  for  the  larger  voice  of  the  desert,  for  the  triumphant  clarion 
of  the  sands  that  would  announce  to  her  her  entry  with  Androv- 
sky  into  the  life  of  the  wastes.  Again  she  personified  the  Sahara, 
but  now  more  vividly  than  ever  before.  In  the  obscurity  she 
seemed  to  see  it  far  away,  like  a  great  heroic  figure,  waiting  for 
her  and  her  passion,  waiting  in  a  region  of  gold  and  silken  airs  at 
the  back  of  the  tempest  to  crown  her  life  with  a  joy  wide  as  its 
dreamlike  spaces,  to  teach  her  mind  the  inner  truths  that  lie 
beyond  the  crowded  ways  of  men  and  to  open  her  heart  to  the 
most  profound  messages  of  Nature. 

She  listened,  holding  Androvsky's  hand,  and  she  felt  that  he 
was  listening  too,  with  an  intensity  strong  as  her  own,  or 
stronger.  Presently  his  hand  closed  upon  hers  more  tightly, 
almost  hurting  her  physically.  ,As  it  did  so  she  glanced  up,  but 


THE   JOURNEY  289 

not  at  him,  and  noticed  that  the  curtains  of  the  palanquin  were 
fluttering  less  fiercely.  Once,  for  an  instant,  they  were  almost 
still.  Then  again  they  moved  as  if  tugged  by  invisible  hands; 
then  were  almost  still  once  more.  At  the  same  time  the  wind's 
voice  sank  in  her  ears  like  a  music  dropping  downward  in  a  hol- 
low place.  It  rose,  but  swiftly  sank  a  second  time  to  a  softer 
hush,  and  she  perceived  in  the  curtained  enclosure  a  faintly  grow- 
ing light  which  enabled  her  to  see,  for  the  first  time  since  she 
had  left  the  church,  her  husband's  features.  He  was  looking  at 
her  with  an  expression  of  anticipation 'in  which  there  was  awe, 
and  she  realised  that  in  her  expectation  of  the  welcome  of  the 
desert  she  had  been  mistaken.  She  had  listened  for  the  sounding 
of  a  clarion,  but  she  was  to  be  greeted  by  a  still,  small  voice. 
She  understood  the  awe  in  her  husband's  eyes  and  snared  it.  And 
she  knew  at  once,  with  a  sudden  thrill  of  rapture,  that  in  the 
scheme  of  things  there  are  blessings  and  nobilities  undreamed  of 
by  man  and  that  must  always  come  upon  him  with  a  glorious 
shock  of  surprise,  showing  him  the  poor  faultiness  of  what  he 
had  thought  perhaps  his  most  magnificent  imaginings.  Elisha 
sought  for  the  Lord  in  the  fire  and  in  the  whirlwind ;  but  in  the 
still,  small  voice  onward  came  the  Lord. 

Incomparably  more  wonderful  than  what  she  had  waited  for 
seemed  to  her  now  this  sudden  falling  of  the  storm,  this  mystical 
voice  that  came  to  them  out  of  the  heart  of  the  sands  telling 
them  that  they  were  passing  at  last  into  the  arms  of  the  Sahara. 
The  wind  sank  rapidly.  The  light  grew  in  the  palanquin.  From 
without  the  voices  of  the  camel-drivers  and  of  Batouch  and  AH 
talking  together  reached  their  ears  distinctly.  Yet  they  remained 
silent.  It  seemed  as  if  they  feared  by  speech  to  break  the  spell 
of  the  calm  that  was  flowing  around  them,  as  if  they  feared  to 
interrupt  the  murmur  of  the  desert.  Domini  now  returned  the 
gaze  of  her  husband.  She  could  not  take  her  eyes  from  his, 
for  she  wished  him  to  read  all  the  joy  that  was  in  her  heart ;  she 
wished  him  to  penetrate  her  thoughts,  to  understand  her  desires, 
to  be  at  one  with  the  woman  who  had  been  born  on  the  eve  of 
the  passing  of  the  wind.  With  the  coming  of  this  mystic  calm 
was  coming  surely  something  else.  The  silence  was  bringing 
with  it  the  fusing  of  two  natures.  The  desert  in  this  moment 
was  drawing  together  two  souls  into  a  union  which  Time  and 
Death  would  have  no  power  to  destroy.  Presently  the  wind 
completely  died  away,  only  a  faint  breeze  fluttered  the  curtains 
of  the  palanquin,  and  the  light  that  penetrated  between  them 
here  and  there  was  no  longer  white,  but  sparkled  with  a  tiny 


29o  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

dust  of  gold.  Then  Androvsky  moved  to  open  the  curtains, 
and  Domini  spoke  for  the  first  time  since  their  marriage. 

"  Wait,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

He  dropped  his  hand  obediently,  and  looked  at  her  with 
inquiry  in  his  eyes. 

"  Don't  let  us  look  till  we  are  far  out,"  she  said,  "  far  away 
from  Beni-Mora." 

He  made  no  answer,  but  she  saw  that  he  understood  all  that 
was  in  her  heart.  He  leaned  a  little  nearer  to  her  and  stretched 
out  his  arm  as  if  to  put  it  round  her.  But  he  did  not  put  it 
round  her,  and  she  knew  why.  He  was  husbanding  his  great  joy 
as  she  had  husbanded  the  dark  hours  of  the  previous  night  that 
to  her  were  golden.  And  that  unfinished  action,  that  impulse 
unfulfilled,  showed  her  more  clearly  the  depths  of  his  passion  for 
her  even  than  had  the  desperate  clasp  of  his  hands  about  her 
knees  in  the  garden.  That  which  he  did  not  do  now  was  the 
greatest  assertion  possible  of  all  that  he  would  do  in  the  life  that 
was  before  them,  and  made  her  feel  how  entirely  she  belonged  to 
him.  Something  within  her  trembled  like  a  poor  child  before 
whom  is  suddenly  set  the  prospect  of  a  day  of  perfect  happiness. 
She  thought  of  the  ending  of  this  day,  of  the  coming  of  the 
evening.  Always  the  darkness  had  parted  them;  at  the  ending 
of  this  day  it  would  unite  them.  In  Androvsky's  eyes  she  read 
her  thought  of  the  darkness  reflected,  reflected  and  yet  changed, 
transmuted  by  sex.  It  was  as  if  at  that  moment  she  read  the 
same  story  written  in  two  ways — by  a  woman  and  by  a  man,  as 
if  she  saw  Eden,  not  only  as  Eve  saw  it,  but  as  Adam. 

A  long  time  passed,  but  they  did  not  feel  it  to  be  long.  When 
their  camel  halted  they  unclasped  their  hands  slowly  like  sleepers 
reluctantly  awaking. 

They  heard  Batouch's  voice  outside  the  palanquin. 

"  Madame !  "  he  called.     "  Madame !  " 

"  What  is  it?  "  asked  Domini,  stifling  a  sigh. 

"  Madame  should  draw  the  curtains.  We  are  halfway  to 
Arba.  It  is  time  for  dejeuner.  I  will  make  the  camel  of 
Madame  lie  down." 

A  loud  "A-a-ah!"  rose  up,  followed  by  a  fierce  groaning 
from  the  camel,  and  a  lethargic,  yet  violent,  movement  that 
threw  them  forward  and  backward.  They  sank.  A  hand  from 
without  pulled  back  the  curtains  and  light  streamed  over  them. 
They  set  their  feet  in  sand,  stood  up,  and  looked  about  them. 

Already  they  were  far  out  in  the  desert,  though  not  yet 
beyond  the  limit  of  the  range  of  red  mountains,  which  stretched 


THE  JOURNEY  291 

forward  upon  their  left  but  at  no  great  distance  beyond  them 
ended  in  the  sands.  The  camels  were  lying  down  in  a  faintly 
defined  track  which  was  bordered  upon  either  side  by  the  plain 
covered  with  little  humps  of  sandy  soil  on  which  grew  dusty 
shrub.  Above  them  was  a  sky  of  faint  blue,  heavy  with  banks 
of  clouds  towards  the  east,  and  oyer  their  heads  dressed  in  wispy 
veils  of  vaporous  white,  through  which  the  blue  peered  in  sec- 
tions that  grew  larger  as  they  looked.  Towards  the  south, 
where  Arba  lay  on  a  low  hill  of  earth,  without  grass  or  trees, 
beyond  a  mound  covered  thickly  with  tamarisk  bushes,  which 
was  a  feeding-place  for  immense  herds  of  camels,  the  blue  was 
clear  and  the  light  of  the  sun  intense.  A  delicate  breeze  trav- 
elled about  them,  stirring  the  bushes  and  the  robes  of  the  Arabs, 
who  were  throwing  back  their  hoods,  and  uncovering  their 
mouths,  and  smiling  at  them,  but  seriously,  as  Arabs  alone  can 
smile.  Beside  them  stood  two  white  and  yellow  guard  dogs, 
blinking  and  looking  weary. 

For  a  moment  they  stood  still,  blinking  too,  almost  like  the 
dogs.  The  change  to  this  immensity  and  light  from  the  narrow 
darkness  of  the  palanquin  overwhelmed  their  senses.  They  said 
nothing,  but  only  stared  silently.  Then  Domini,  with  a  large 
gesture,  stretched  her  arms  above  her  head,  drawing  a  deep 
breath  which  ended  in  a  little,  almost  sobbing,  laugh  of 
exultation. 

"  Out  of  prison,"  she  said  disconnectedly.  "  Out  of  prison — 
into  this!  "  Suddenly  she  turned  upon  Androvsky  and  caught 
his  arm,  and  twined  both  of  her  arms  round  it  with  a  strong 
confidence  that  was  careless  of  everything  in  the  intensity  of  its 
happiness. 

"  All  my  life  I've  been  in  prison,"  she  said.  "  You've  un- 
locked the  door!  "  And  then,  as  suddenly  as  she  had  caught  his 
arm,  she  let  it  go.  Something  surged  up  in  her,  making  her 
almost  afraid,  or,  if  not  that,  confused.  It  was  as  if  her  nature 
were  a  horse  taking  the  bit  between  its  teeth  preparatory  to  a 
tremendous  gallop.  Whither?  She  did  not  know.  She  was 
intoxicated  by  the  growing  light,  the  sharp,  delicious  air,  the 
huge  spaces  around  her,  the  solitude  with  this  man  who  held  her 
soul  surely  in  his  hands.  She  had  always  connected  him  with 
the  desert.  Now  he  was  hers  into  the  desert,  and  the  desert  was 
hers  with  him.  But  was  it  possible?  Could  such  a  fate  have 
been  held  in  reserve  for  her?  She  scarcely  dared  even  to  try  to 
realise  the  meaning  of  her  situation,  lest  at  a  breath  it  should  be 
changed.  Just  then  she  felt  that  if  she  ventured  to  weigh  and 


292  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

measure  her  wonderful  gift  Androvsky  would  fall  dead  at  her 
feet  and  the  desert  be  folded  together  like  a  scroll. 

"  There  is  Beni-Mora,  Madame,"  said  Batouch. 

She  was  glad  he  spoke  to  her,  turned  and  followed  with  her 
eyes  his  pointing  hand.  Far  off  she  saw  a  green  darkness  of 
palms,  and  above  it  a  white  tower,  small,  from  here,  as  the 
tower  of  a  castle  of  dolls. 

"  The  tower!  "  she  said  to  Androvsky.  "  We  first  spoke  in 
it.  We  must  bid  it  good-bye." 

She  made  a  gesture  of  farewell  towards  it.  Androvsky 
watched  the  movement  of  her  hand.  She  noticed  now  that  she 
made  no  movement  that  he  did  not  observe  with  a  sort  of 
passionate  attention.  The  desert  did  not  exist  for  him.  She 
saw  that  in  his  eyes.  He  did  not  look  towards  the  tower  even 
when  she  repeated: 

"  We  must — we  owe  it  that." 

Batouch  and  Ali  were  busy  spreading  a  cloth  upon  the  sand, 
making  It  firm  with  little  stones,  taking  out  food,  plates,  knives, 
glasses,  bottles  from  a  great  basket  slung  on  one  of  the  camels. 
They  moved  deftly,  seriously  intent  upon  their  task.  The  camel- 
drivers  were  loosening  the  cords  that  bound  the  loads  upon  their 
beasts,  who  roared  venomously,  opening  their  mouths,  showing 
long  decayed  teeth,  and  turning  their  heads  from  side  to  side 
with  a  serpentine  movement.  Domini  and  Androvsky  were  not 
watched  for  a  moment. 

"  Why  won't  you  look?  Why  won't  you  say  good-bye?  "  she 
asked,  coming  nearer  to  him  on  the  sand  softly,  with  a  woman's 
longing  to  hear  him  explain  what  she  understood. 

"  What  do  I  care  for  it,  or  the  palms,  or  the  sky,  or  the 
desert?"  he  answered  almost  savagely.  "What  can  I  care? 
If  you  were  mine  behind  iron  bars  in  that  prison  you  spoke  of — 
don't  you  think  it's  enough  for  me — too  much — a  cup  running 
over?" 

And  he  added  some  words  under  his  breath,  words  she  could 
not  hear. 

"  Not  even  the  desert !  "  she  said  with  a  catch  in  her  voice. 

"  It's  all  in  you.  Everything's  in  you— everything  ^that 
brought  us  together,  that  we've  watched  and  wanted  together." 

"  But  then,"  she  said,  and  now  her  voice  was  very  quiet,  "  am 
I  peace  for  you  ?  " 

"  Peace!  "  said  Androvsky. 

"  Yes.  Don't  you  remember  once  I  said  that  there  must  be 
peace  in  the  desert.  Then  is  it  in  me — for  you?  " 


THE  JOURNEY  293 

"  Peace !  "  he  repeated.  "  To-day  I  can't  think  of  peace,  or 
want  it.  Don't  you  ask  too  much  of  me!  Let  me  live  to-day, 
live  as  only  a  man  can  who — let  me  live  with  all  that  is  in  me 
to-day — Domini.  Men  ask  to  die  in  peace.  Oh,  Domini — 
Domini!" 

His  expression  was  like  arms  that  crushed  her,  lips  that  pressed 
her  mouth,  a  heart  that  beat  on  hers. 

"  Madame  est  servie!  "  cried  Batouch  in  a  merry  voice. 

His  mistress  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.    He  cried  again: 

"  Madame  est  servie!  " 

Then  Domini  turned  round  and  came  to  the  first  meal  in  the 
sand.  Two  cushions  lay  beside  the  cloth  upon  an  Arab  quilt  of 
white,  red,  and  orange  colour.  Upon  the  cloth,  in  vases  of 
rough  pottery,  stained  with  designs  in  purple,  were  arranged  the 
roses  brought  by  Smai'n  from  Count  Anteoni's  garden. 

"  Our  wedding  breakfast!  "  Domini  said  under  her  breath. 

She  felt  just  then  as  if  she  were  living  in  a  wonderful 
romance. 

They  sat  down  side  by  side  and  ate  with  a  good  appetite, 
served  by  Batouch  and  Ali.  Now  and  then  a  pale  yellow 
butterfly,  yellow  as  the  sand,  flitted  by  them.  Small  yellow 
birds  with  crested  heads  ran  swiftly  among  the  scrub,  or  flew 
low  over  the  flats.  In  the  sky  the  vapours  gathered  themselves 
together  and  moved  slowly  away  towards  the  east,  leaving  the 
blue  above  their  heads  unflecked  with  white.  With  each  mo- 
ment the  heat  of  the  sun  grew  more  intense.  The  wind  had 
gone.  It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  it  had  ever  roared  over 
the  desert.  A  little  way  from  them  the  camel-drivers  squatted 
beside  the  beasts,  eating  flat  loaves  of  yellow  bread,  and  talking 
together  in  low,  guttural  voices.  The  guard  dogs  roamed 
round  them,  uneasily  hungry.  In  the  distance,  before  a  tent  of 
patched  rags,  a  woman,  scantily  clad  in  bright  red  cotton,  was 
suckling  a  child  and  staring  at  the  caravan. 

Domini  and  Androvsky  scarcely  spoke  as  they  ate.  Once  she 
said: 

"  Do  you  realise  that  this  is  a  wedding  breakfast?  " 

She  was  thinking  of  the  many  wedding  receptions  she  had 
attended  in  London,  of  crowds  of  smartly-dressed  women  staring 
enviously  at  tiaras,  and  sets  of  jewels  arranged  in  cases  upon 
tables,  of  brides  and  bridegrooms,  looking  flushed  and  anxious, 
standing  under  canopies  of  flowers  and  forcing  their  tired  lips 
into  smiles  as  they  replied  to  stereotyped  congratulations,  while 
detectives — poorly  disguised  as  gentlemen — hovered  in  the  back- 


294  THE  .GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

ground  to  see  that  none,  of  the  presents  mysteriously  disappeared. 
Her  presents  were  the  velvety  roses  in  the  earthen  vases,  the 
breezes  of  the  desert,  the  sand  humps,  the  yellow  butterflies,  the 
silence  that  lay  around  like  a  blessing  pronounced  by  the  God 
who  made  the  still  places  where  souls  can  learn  to  know  them- 
selves and  their  great  destiny. 

"  A  wedding  breakfast,"  Androvsky  said. 

"  Yes.     But  perhaps  you  have  never  been  to  one." 

"  Never." 

"  Then  you  can't  love  this  one  as  much  as  I  do.'* 

"  Much  more,"  he  answered. 

She  looked  at  him,  remembering  how  often  in  the  past,  when 
she  had  been  feeling  intensely,  she  had  it  borne  in  upon  her  that 
he  was  feeling  even  more  intensely  than  herself.  But  could  that 
be  possible  now? 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  said,  "that  it  is  possible  for  you,  who 
have  never  lived  in  cities,  to  love  this  land  as  I  love  it  ?  " 

Androvsky  moved  on  his  cushion  and  leaned  down  till  his 
elbow  touched  the  sand.  Lying  thus,  with  his  chin  in  his  hand, 
and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  he  answered: 

"  But  it  is  not  the  land  I  am  loving." 

His  absolute  concentration  upon  her  made  her  think  that, 
perhaps,  he  misunderstood  her  meaning  in  speaking  of  the  desert, 
her  joy  in  it.  She  longed  to  explajn  how  he  and  the  desert  were 
linked  together  in  her  heart,  and  she  dropped  her  hand  upon  his 
left  hand,  which  lay  palm  downwards  in  the  warm  sand. 

"  I  love  this  land,"  she  began,  "  because  I  found  you  in  it, 
because  I  feel " 

She  stopped. 

"Yes,  Domini?  "he  said. 

"No,  not  now.     I  can't  tell  you.     There's  too  much  light." 

"  Domini,"  he  repeated. 

Then  they  were  silent  once  more,  thinking  of  how  the  dark- 
ness would  come  to  them  at  Arba. 

In  the  late  afternoon  they  drew  near  to  the  Bordj,.  moving 
along  a  difficult  route  full  of  deep  ruts  and  holes,  and  bordered 
on  either  side  by  bushes  so  tall  that  they'  looked  almost  like 
trees.  Here,  tended  by  Arabs  who  stared  gravely  at  the 
strangers  in  the  palanquin,  were  grazing  immense  herds  of 
camels.  Above  the  bushes  to  the  horizon  on  either  side  of  the 
way  appeared  the  serpentine  necks  flexibly  moving  to  and  fro, 
now  bending  deliberately  towards  the  dusty  twigs,  now  stretched 
straight  forward  as  if  in  patient  search  for  some  solace  of  the 


THE   JOURNEY  295 

camel's  fate  that  lay  in  the  remoteness  of  the  desert.  Baby 
camels,  many  of  them  only  a  few  days  old,  yet  already  vowed  to 
the  eternal  pilgrimages  of  the  wastes,  with  mild  faces  and  long, 
disobedient-looking  legs,  ran  from  the  caravan,  nervously  seeking 
their  morose  mothers,  who  cast  upon  them  glances  that  seemed 
expressive  of  a  disdainful  pity.  In  front,  beyond  a  watercourse, 
now  dried  up,  rose  the  low  hill  on  which  stood  the  Bordj,  a  huge 
square  building,  with  two  square  towers  pierced  with  loopholes. 
From  a  distance  it  resembled  a  fort  threatening  the  desert  in 
magnificent  isolation.  Its  towers  were  black  against  the  clear 
lemon  of  the  failing  sunlight.  Pigeons,  that  looked  also  black, 
flew  perpetually  about  them,  and  the  telegraph  posts,  that 
bordered  the  way  at  regular  intervals  on  the  left,  made  a  dimin- 
ishing series  of  black  vertical  lines  sharply  cutting  the  yellow  till 
they  were  lost  to  sight  in  the  south.  To  Domini  these  posts 
were  like  pointing  fingers  beckoning  her  onward  to  the  farthest 
distances  of  the  sun.  Drugged  by  the  long  journey  over  the 
flats,  and  the  unceasing  caress  of  the  air,  that  was  like  an  impor- 
tunate lover  ever  unsatisfied,  she  watched  from  the  height  on 
which  she  was  perched  this  evening  scene  of  roaming,  feeding 
animals,  staring  nomads,  monotonous  herbage  and  vague, 
surely-retreating  mountains,  with  quiet,  dreamy  eyes.  Every- 
thing which  she  saw  seemed  to  her  beautiful,  a  little  remote 
and  a  little  fantastic.  The  slow  movement  of  the  camels,  the 
swifter  movements  of  the  circling  pigeons  about  the  square 
towers  on  the  hill,  the  motionless,  or  gently-gliding,  Arabs  with 
their  clubs  held  slantwise,  the  telegraph  poles,  one  smaller  than 
the  other,  diminishing  till — as  if  magically — they  disappeared  in 
the  lemon  that  was  growing  into  gold,  were  woven  together  for 
her  by  the  shuttle  of  the  desert  into  a  softly  brilliant  tapestry — 
one  of  those  tapestries  that  is  like  a  legend  struck  to  sleep  as 
the  Beauty  in  her  palace.  As  they  began  to  mount  the  hill,  and 
the  radiance  of  the  sky  increased,  this  impression  faded,  for  the 
life  that  centred  round  the  Bordj  was  vivid,  though  sparse  in 
comparison  with  the  eddying  life  of  towns,  and  had  that  air  of 
peculiar  concentration  which  may  be  noted  in  pictures  represent- 
ing a  halt  in  .the  desert. 

No  longer  did  the  strongly-built  Bordj  seem  to  Domini  like  a 
fort  threatening  the  oncomer,  but  like  a  stalwart  host  welcoming 
him,  a  host  who  kept  open  house  in  this  treeless  desolation  that 
yet  had,  for  her,  no  feature  that  was  desolate.  It  was  earth- 
coloured,  built  of  stone,  and  had  in  the  middle  of  the  fagade  that 
faced  them  an  immense  hospitable  doorway  with  a  white  arch 


296  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

above  it.  This  doorway  gave  a  partial  view  of  a  vast  courtyard, 
in  which  animals  and  people  were  moving  to  and  fro.  Round 
about,  under  the  sheltering  shadow  of  the  windowless  wall,  were 
many  Arabs,  some  squatting  on  their  haunches,  some  standing 
upright  with  their  backs  against  the  stone,  some  moving  from  one 
group  to  another,  gesticulating  and  talking  vivaciously.  Boys 
were  playing  a  game  with  stones  set  in  an  ordered  series  of  small 
holes  scooped  by  their  fingers  in  the  dust.  A  negro  crossed 
the  flat  space  before  the  Bordj  carrying  on  his  head  a  huge 
earthen  vase  to  the  well  near  by,  where  a  crowd  of  black  don- 
keys, just  relieved  of  their  loads  of  brushwood,  was  being 
watered.  From  the  south  two  Spahis  were  riding  in  on  white 
horses,  their  scarlet  cloaks  floating  out  over  their  saddles;  and 
from  the  west,  moving  slowly  to  a  wailing  sound  of  indistinct 
music,  a  faint  beating  of  tom-toms,  was  approaching  a  large 
caravan  in  a  cloud  of  dust  which  floated  back  from  it  and  melted 
away  into  the  radiance  of  the  sunset. 

When  they  gained  the  great  open  space  before  the  building 
they  were  bathed  in  the  soft  golden  light,  in  which  all  these 
figures  of  Africans,  and  all  these  animals,  looked  mysterious  and 
beautiful,  and  full  of  that  immeasurable  significance  which  the 
desert  sheds  upon  those  who  move  in  it,  specially  at  dawn  or  at 
sundown.  From  the  plateau  they  dominated  the  whole  of  the 
plain  they  had  traversed  as  far  as  Beni-Mora,  which  on  the 
morrow  would  fade  into  the  blue  horizon.  Its  thousands  of 
palms  made  a  darkness  in  the  gold,  and  still  the  tower  of  the 
hotel  was  faintly  visible,  pointing  like  a  needle  towards  the  sky, 
The  range  of  mountains  showed  their  rosy  flanks  in  the  distance. 
They,  too,  on  the  morrow  would  be  lost  in  the  desert  spaces,  the 
last  outposts  of  the  world  of  hill  and  valley,  of  stream  and  sea. 
Only  in  the  deceptive  dream  of  the  mirage  would  they -appear 
once  more,  looming  in  a  pearl-coloured  shaking  veil  like  a  fluid 
on  the  edge  of  some  visionary  lagune. 

Domini  was  glad  that  on  this  first  night  of  their  journey  they 
could  still  see  Beni-Mora,  the  place  where  they  had  found  each 
other  and  been  given  to  each  other  by  the  Church.  As  the 
camel  stopped  before  the  great  doorway  of  the  Bordj  she  turned 
in  the  palanquin  and  looked  down  upon  the  desert,  motioning  to 
the  camel-driver  to  leave  the  beast  for  a  moment.  She  put  her 
arm  through  Androvsky's  and  made  his  eyes  follow  hers  across 
the  vast  spaces  made  magical  by  the  sinking  sun  to  that  darkness 
of  distant  palms  which,  to  her,  would  be  a  sacred  place  for  ever. 
And  as  they  looked  in  silence  all  that  Beni-Mora  meant  to  hec 


THE   JOURNEY  297 

came  upon  her.  She  saw  again  the  garden  hushed  in  the  heat 
of  noon.  She  saw  Androvsky  at  her  feet  on  the  sand.  She 
heard  the  chiming  church  bell  and  the  twitter  of  Larbi's  flute. 
The  dark  blue  of  trees  was  as  the  heart  of  the  world  to  her  and 
as  the  heart  of  life.  It  had  seen  the  birth  of  her  soul  and  given 
to  her  another  newborn  soul.  There  was  a  pathos  in  seeing  it 
fade  like  a  thing  sinking  down  till  it  became  one  with  the  im- 
measurable sands,  and  at  that  moment  she  said  to  herself, 
"  When  shall  I  see  Beni-Mora  again — and  how?  "  She  looked 
at  Androvsky,  met  his  eyes,  and  thought:  "  When  I  see  it  again 
how  different  I  shall  be !  How  I  shall  be  changed !  "  And  in 
the  sunset  she  seemed  to  be  saying  a  mute  good-bye  to  one  who 
was  fading  with  Beni-Mora. 

As  soon  as  they  had  got  off  the  camel  and  were  standing  in 
the  group  of  staring  Arabs,  Batouch  begged  them  to  come  to 
their  tents,  where  tea  would  be  ready.  He  led  them  round  the 
angle  of  the  wall  towards  the  west,  and  there,  pitched  in  the  full 
radiance  of  the  sunset,  with  a  wide  space  of  hard  earth  gleaming 
with  gypse  around  it,  was  a  white  tent.  Before  it,  in  the  open 
air,  was  stretched  a  handsome  Arab  carpet,  and  on  this  carpet 
were  set  a  folding  table  and  two  folding  chairs.  The  table  held 
a  japanned  tray  with  tea-cups,  a  milk  jug  and  plates  of  biscuits, 
and  by  it,  in  an  attitude  that  looked  deliberately  picturesque, 
stood  Ouardi,  the  youth  selected  by  Batouch  to  fill  the  office  of 
butler  in  the  desert. 

Ouardi  smiled  a  broad  welcome  as  they  approached,  and, 
having  made  sure  that  his  pose  had  been  admired,  retired  to  the 
cook's  abode  to  fetch  the  teapot,  while  Batouch  invited  Domini 
and  Androvsky  to  inspect  the  tent  prepared  for  them.  Domini 
assented  with  a  dropped-out  word.  She  still  felt  in  a  dream. 
But  Androvsky,  after  casting  towards  the  tent  door  a  glance  that 
was  full  of  a  sort  of  fierce  shyness,  moved  away  a  few  steps,  and 
stood  at  the  edge  of  the  hill  looking  down  upon  the  incoming 
caravan,  whose  music  was  now  plainly  audible  in  the  stillness  of 
the  waste. 

Domini  went  into  the  tent  that  was  to  be  their  home  for 
many  weeks,  alone.  And  she  was  glad  just  then  that  she  was 
alone.  For  she  too,  like  Androvsky,  felt  a  sort  of  exquisite 
trouble  moving,  like  a  wave,  in  her  heart.  On  some  pretext,  but 
only  after  an  expression  of  admiration,  she  got  rid  of  Batouch. 
Then  she  stood  and  looked  round. 

From  the  big  tent  opened  a  smaller  one,  which  was  to  serve 
Androvsky  as  a  dressing-room  and  both  of  them  as  a  baggage 


298  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

room.  She  did  not  go  into  that,  but  saw)  with  one  glance  of 
soft  inquiry,  the  two  small,  low  beds,  the  strips  of  gay  carpet,  the 
dressing-table,  the  washhand-stand  and  the  two  cane  chairs 
which  furnished  the  sleeping-tent.  Then  she  looked  back  to  the 
aperture.  In  the  distance,  standing  alone  at  the  edge  of  the  hill, 
she  saw  Androvsky,  bathed  in  the  sunset,  looking  out  over  the 
hidden  desert  from  which  rose  the  wild  sound  of  African  music, 
steadily  growing  louder.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  he  must  be 
gazing  at  the  plains  of  heaven,  so  magically  brilliant  and  tender, 
so  pellucidly  clear  and  delicate  was  the  atmosphere  and  the 
colour  of  the  sky.  She  saw  no  other  form,  only  his,  in  this 
poem  of  light,  in  this  wide  world  of  the  sinking  sun.  And  the 
music  seemed  to  be  about  his  feet,  to  rise  from  the  sand  and 
throb  in  its  breast. 

At  that  moment  the  figure  of  Liberty,  which  she  had  seen  in 
the  shadows  of  the  dancing-house,  came  in  at  the  tent  door  and 
laid,  for  the  first  time,  her  lips  on  Domini's.  That  kiss  was 
surely  the  consecration  of  the  life  of  the  sands.  But  to-day  there 
had  been  another  consecration.  Domini  had  a  sudden  impulse 
to  link  the  two  consecrations  together. 

She  drew  from  her  breast  the  wooden  crucifix  Androvsky  had 
thrown  into  the  stream  at  Sidi-Zerzour,  and,  softly  going  to  one 
of  the  beds,  she  pinned  the  crucifix  above  it  on  the  canvas  of  the 
tent.  Then  she  turned  and  went  out  into  the  glory  of  the  sunset 
to  meet  the  fierce  music  that  was  rising  from  the  desert. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

NIGHT  had  fallen  over  the  desert,  a  clear  purple  night,  starry 
but  without  a  moon.  Around  the  Bordj,  and  before  a  Cafe 
Maure  built  of  brown  earth  and  palm-wood,  opposite  to  it,  the 
Arabs  who  were  halting  to  sleep  at  Arba  on  their  journeys  to 
and  from  Beni-Mora  were  huddled,  sipping  coffee,  playing 
dominoes  by  the  faint  light  of  an  oil  lamp,  smoking  cigarettes 
and  long  pipes  of  keef.  Within  the  court  of  the  Bordj  the  mules 
were  feeding  tranquilly  in  rows.  The  camels  roamed  the  plain 
among  the  tamarisk  bushes,  watched  over  by  shrouded  shadowy 
guardians  sleepless  as  they  were.  The  mountains,  the  palms 
of  Beni-Mora,  were  lost  in  the  darkness  that  lay  over  the 
desert. 

On  the  low  hill,  at  some  distance  beyond  the  white  tent  of 
Domini  and  Androvsky,  the  obscurity  was  lit  up  fiercely  by  the 


THE   JOURNEY  299 

blaze  of  a  huge  fire  of  brushwood,  the  flames  of  which  towered 
up  towards  the  stars,  flickering  this  way  and  that  as  the  breeze 
took  them,  and  casting  a  wild  illumination  upon  the  wild  faces 
of  the  rejoicing  desert  men  who  were  gathered  about  it,  telling 
stories  of  the  wastes,  singing  songs  that  were  melancholy  and 
remote  to  Western  ears,  even  though  they  hymned  past  victories 
over  the  infidels,  or  passionate  ecstasies  of  love  in  the  golden 
regions  of  the  sun.  The  steam  from  bowls  of  cous-cous  and 
stews  of  mutton  and  vegetables  curled  up  to  join  the  thin  smoke 
that  made  a  light  curtain  about  this  fantasia,  and  from  time 
to  time,  with  a  shrill  cry  of  exultation,  a  half-naked  form,  all 
gleaming  eyes  and  teeth  and  polished  bronze-hued  limbs,  rushed 
out  of  the  blackness  beyond  the  fire,  leaped  through  the  tongues 
of  flame  and  vanished  like  a  spectre  into  the  embrace  of  the 
night. 

All  the  members  of  the  caravan,  presided  over  by  Batouch 
in  glory,  were  celebrating  the  wedding  night  of  their  master  and 
mistress. 

Domini  and  Androvsky  had  already  visited  them  by  their 
bonfire,  had  received  their  compliments,  watched  the  sword 
dance  and  the  dance  of  the  clubs,  touched  with  their  lips,  or 
pretended  to  touch,  the  stem  of  a  keef,  listened  to  a  marriage 
song  warbled  by  Ali  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  flute  and  little 
drums,  and  applauded  Ouardi's  agility  in  leaping  through  the 
flames.  Then,  with  many  good-nights,  pressures  of  the  hand, 
and  auguries  for  the  morrow,  they  had  gone  away  into  the  cool 
darkness,  silently  towards  their  tent. 

They  walked  slowly,  a  little  apart  from  each  other.  Domini 
looked  up  at  the  stars  and  saw  among  them  the  star  of  Liberty. 
Androvsky  looked  at  her  and  saw  all  the  stars  in  her  face. 
When  they  reached  the  tent  door  they  stopped  on  the  warm 
earth.  A  lamp  was  lit  within,  casting  a  soft  light  on  the  simple 
furniture  and  on  the  whiteness  of  the  two  beds,  above  one  of 
which  Domini  imagined,  though  from  without  she  could  not 
see,  the  wooden  crucifix  Androvsky  had  once  worn  in  his 
breast. 

"  Shall  we  stay  here  a  little?  "  Domini  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"Out  here?"  There  was  a  long  pause.  Then  Androvsky 
answered : 

"  Yes.     Let  us  feel  it  all— all.     Let  us  feel  it  to  the  full." 

He  caught  hold  of  her  hand  with  a  sort  of  tender  roughness 
and  twined  his  fingers  between  hers,  pressing  his  palm  against 
hers. 


300  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  Don't  let  us  miss  anything  to-night,"  he  said.  "  All  my 
life  is  to-night.  I've  had  no  life  yet.  To-morrow — who  knows 
whether  we  shall  be  dead  to-morrow?  Who  knows?  But 
we're  alive  to-night,  flesh  and  blood,  heart  and  soul.  And 
there's  nothing  here,  there  can  be  nothing  here  to  take  our 
life  from  us,  the  life  of  our  love  to-night.  For  we're  out  in  the 
desert,  we're  right  away  from  anyone,  everything.  We're  in 
the  great  freedom.  Aren't  we,  Domini  ?  Aren't  we  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said.     "  Yes." 

He  took  her  other  hand  in  the  same  way.  He  was  facing  her, 
and  he  held  his  hands  against  his  heart  with  hers  in  them,  then 
pressed  her  hands  against  her  heart,  then  drew  them  back  again 
to  his. 

"  Then  let  us  realise  it.  Let  us  forget  our  prison.  Let  us 
forget  everything,  everything  that  we  ever  knew  before  Beni- 
Mora,  Domini.  It's  dead,  absolutely  dead,  unless  we  make  it 
live  by  thinking.  And  that's  mad,  crazy.  Thought's  the  great 
madness.  Domini,  have  you  forgotten  everything  before  we 
knew  each  other?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "Now — but  only  now.  You've  made  me 
forget  it  all." 

There  was  a  deep  breathing  under  her  voice.  He  held  up 
her  hands  to  his  shoulders  and  looked  closely  into  her  eyes,  as 
if  he  were  trying  to  send  all  himself  into  her  through  those  doors 
of  the  soul  opened  to  seeing  him.  And  now,  in  this  moment, 
she  felt  that  her  fierce  desire  was  realised,  that  he  was  rising 
above  her  on  eagle's  wings.  And  as  on  the  night  before  the 
wedding  she  had  blessed  all  the  sorrows  of  her  life,  now  she 
blessed  silently  all  the  long  silence  of  Androvsky,"  all  his  strange 
reticence,  his  uncouthness,  his  avoidance  of  her  in  the  beginning 
of  their  acquaintance.  That  which  had  made  her  pain  by  being, 
now  made  her  joy  by  having  been  and  being  no  more.  The 
hidden  man  was  rushing  forth  to  her  at  last  in  his  love.  She 
seemed  to  hear  in  the  night  the  crash  of  a  great  obstacle,  and  the 
voice  of  the  flood  of  waters  that  had  broken  it  down  at  length 
and  were  escaping  into  liberty.  His  silence  of  the  past  now 
made  his  speech  intensely  beautiful  and  wonderful  to  her.  She 
wanted  to  hear  the  waters  more  intensely,  more  intensely. 

"  Speak  to  me,"  she  said.  "  You've  spoken  so  little.  Do 
you  know  how  little  ?  Tell  me  all  you  are.  Till  now  I've  only 
felt  all  you  are.  And  that's  so  much,  but  not  enough  for  a 
woman — not  enough.  I've  taken  you,  but  now — give  me  all 
I've  taken.  Give — keep  on  giving  and  giving.  From  to-night 


THE  JOURNEY  301 

to  receive  will  be  my  life.  Long  ago  I've  given  all  I  had  to  you. 
Give  to  me,  give  me  everything.  You  know  I've  given  all." 

"  All  ?  "  he  said,  and  there  was  a  throb  in  his  deep  voice,  as 
if  some  intense  feeling  rose  from  the  depths  of  him  and  shook  it. 

"  Yes,  all,"  she  whispered.  "  Already — and  long  ago — that 
day  in  the  garden.  When  I — when  I  put  my  hands  against  your 
forehead — do  you  remember?  I  gave  you  all,  for  ever." 

And  as  she  spoke  she  bent  down  her  face  with  a  sort  of  proud 
submission  and  put  her  forehead  against  his  heart. 

The  purity  in  her  voice  and  in  her  quiet,  simple  action 
dazzled  him  like  a  flame  shining  suddenly  in  his  eyes  out  of 
blackness.  And  he,  too,  in  that  moment  saw  far  up  above  him 
the  beating  of  an  eagle's  wings.  To  each  one  the  other  seemed 
to  be  on  high,  and  as  both  looked  up  that  was  their  true 
marriage. 

"  I  felt  it,"  he  said,  touching  her  hair  with  his  lips.  "  I  felt 
it  in  your  hands.  When  you  touched  me  that  day  it  was  as  if 
you  were  giving  me  the  world  and  the  stars.  It  frightened  me 
to  receive  so  much.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  no  place  to  put  my 
gift  in." 

"  Did  your  heart  seem  so  small?  "  she  said. 

"  You  make  everything  I  have  and  am  seem  small — and  yet 
great.  What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

"  That  you  are  great,  as  I  am,  because  we  love.  No  one  is 
small  who  loves.  No  one  is  poor,  no  one  is  bad,  who  loves. 
Love  burns  up  evil.  It's  the  angel  that  destroys." 

Her  words  seemed  to  send  through  his  whole  body  a  quivering 
joy.  He  took  her  face  between  his  hands  and  lifted  it  from  his 
heart. 

"  Is  that  true?  Is  that  true?  "  he  said.  "  I've — I've  tried 
to  think  that.  If  you  know  how  I've  tried." 

"And  don't  you  know  it  is  true?" 

"  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  knew  anything  that  you  do  not  tell  me 
to-night.  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  have,  or  am,  anything  but  what  you 
give  me,  make  me  to-night.  Can  you  understand  that?  Can 
you  understand  what  you  are  to  me  ?  That  you  are  everything, 
that  I  have  nothing  else,  that  I  have  never  had  anything  else  in 
all  these  years  that  I  have  lived  and  that  I  have  forgotten  ?  Can 
you  understand  it?  You  said  just  now  *  Speak  to  me,  tell  me 
all  you  are.'  That's  what  I  am,  all  I  am,  a  man  you  have  made 
a  man.  You,  Domini — you  have  made  me  a  man,  you  have 
created  me." 

She  .was  silent.    iThe  intensity  with  which  he  spoke,  the 


302  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

intensity  of  his  eyes  while  he  was  speaking,  made  her  hear  those 
rushing  waters  as  if  she  were  being  swept  away  by  them. 

"And  you?  "he  said.     "You?" 

"I?" 

"  This  afternoon  in  the  desert,  when  we  were  in  the  sand 
looking  at  Beni-Mora,  you  began  to  tellme  something  and  then 
you  stopped.  And  you  said,  '  I  can't  tell  you.  There's  too 
much  light.'  Now  the  sun  has  gone." 

"  Yes.    But — but  I  want  to  listen  to  you.     I  want " 

She  stopped.  In  the  distance,  by  the  great  fire  where  the 
Arabs  were  assembled,  there  rose  a  sound  of  music  which 
arrested  her  attention.  Ali  was  singing,  holding  in  his  hand  a 
brand  from  the  fire  like  a  torch.  She  had  heard  him  sing  before, 
and  had  loved  the  timbre  of  his  voice,  but  only  now  did  she 
realise  when  she  had  first  heard  him  and  who  he  was.  It  was 
he  who,  hidden  from  her,  had  sung  the  song  of  the  freed  negroes 
of  Touggourt  in  the  gardens  of  Count  Anteoni  that  day  when 
she  had  been  angry  with  Androvsky  and  had  afterwards  been 
reconciled  with  him.  And  she  knew  now  it  was  he,  because, 
once  more  hidden  from  her — for  against  the  curtain  of  darkness 
she  only  saw  the  flame  from  the  torch  he  held  and  moved 
rhythmically  to  the  burden  of  his  song — he  was  singing  it  again. 
Androvsky,  when  she  ceased  to  speak,  suddenly  put  his  arms 
round  her,  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  her  escaping  from  him  in 
her  silence,  and  they  stood  thus  at  the  tent  door  listening: 

"  The  gazelle  dies  in  the  watei*, 
The  fish  dies  in  the  air, 
And  I  die  in  the  dunes  of  the  desert  sand 
For  my  love  that  is  deep  and  sad." 

The  chorus  of  hidden  men  by  the  fire  rose  in  a  low  murmur 
that  was  like  the  whisper  of  the  desert  in  the  night.  Then  the 
contralto  voice  of  Ali  came  to  Domini  and  Androvsky  again, 
but  very  faintly,  from  the  distance  where  the  flaming  torch  was 
moving : 

"  No  one  but  God  and  I 
Knows  what  is  in  my  heart." 

When  the  voice  died  away  for  a  moment  Domini  whispered  the 
refrain.  Then  she  said: 

"  But  is  it  true?     Can  it  be  true  for  us  to-night?  " 

Androvsky  did  not  reply. 


THE   JOURNEY  303 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  true,"  she  added.  "  You  know — don't 
you?" 

The  voice  of  Ali  rose  again,  and  his  torch  flickered  on  the 
soft  wind  of  the  night.  Its  movement  was  slow  and  eerie.  It 
seemed  like  his  voice  made  visible,  a  voice  of  flame  in  the  black- 
ness of  the  world.  They  watched  it.  Presently  she  said  once 
more: 

"  You  know  what  is  in  my  heart — don't  you?  " 

"Do  I?"  he  said.     "All?" 

"  All.     My  heart  is  full  of  one  thing — quite  full." 

"  Then  I  know." 

"  And,"  she  hesitated,  then  added,  "  and  yours?  " 

"  Mine  too." 

"  I  know  all  that  is  in  it  then  ?  " 

She  still  spoke  fluestioningly.  He  did  not  reply,  but  held  her 
more  closely,  with  a  grasp  that  was  feverish  in  its  intensity. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  she  went  on,  "  in  the  garden  what  you 
said  about  that  song?  " 

"  No." 

"  You  have  forgotten  ?  " 

"  I  told  you,"  he  said,  "  I  mean  to  forget  everything." 

"  Everything  before  we  came  to  Beni-Mora?  " 

"  And  more.  Everything  before  you  put  your  hands  against 
my  forehead,  Domini.  Your  touch  blotted  out  the  past." 

"  Even  the  past  at  Beni-Mora?  " 

"  Yes,  even  that.  There  are  many  things  I  did  and  left  un- 
done, many  things  I  said  and  never  said  that — I  have  forgotten 
- — I  have  forgotten  for  ever." 

There  was  a  sternness  in  his  voice  now,  a  fiery  intention. 

"  I  understand,"  she  said.  "  I  have  forgotten  them  too,  but 
not  some  things." 

"Which?  " 

"  Not  that  night  when  you  took  me  out  of  the  dancing-house, 
not  our  ride  to  Sidi-Zerzour,  not — there  are  things  I  shall  re- 
member. When  I  am  dying,  after  I  am  dead,  I  shall  remember 
them." 

The  song  faded  away.  The  torch  was  still,  then  fell  down- 
wards and  became  one  with  the  fire.  Then  Androvsky  drew 
Domini  down  beside  him  on  to  the  warm  earth  before  the  tent 
door,  and  held  her  hand  in  his  against  the  earth. 

"  Feel  it,"  he  said.  "  It's  our  home,  it's  our  liberty.  Does  it 
feel  alive  to  you?  " 

"  Yes." 


3o4  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  As  if  it  had  pulses,  like  the  pulses  in  our  hearts,  and  knew 
what  we  know  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Mother  Earth — I  never  understood  what  that  meant 
till  to-night." 

"  We  are  beginning  to  understand  together.  Who  can  un- 
derstand anything  alone?" 

He  kept  her  hand  always  in  his  pressed  against  the  desert  as 
against  a  heart.  They  both  thought  of  it  as  a  heart  that  was  full 
of  love  and  protection  for  them,  of  understanding  of  them. 
Going  back  to  their  words  before  the  song  of  Ali,  he  said: 

"  Love  burns  up  evil,  then  love  can  never  be  evil." 

"  Not  the  act  of  loving." 

"  Or  what  it  leads  to,"  he  said. 

And  again  there  was  a  sort  of  sternness  in  his  voice,  as  if  he 
were  insisting  on  something,  were  bent  on  conquering  some 
reluctance,  or  some  voice  contradicting. 

"  I  know  that  you  are  right,"  he  added. 

She  did  not  speak,  but — why  she  did  not  know — her  thought 
went  to  the  wooden  crucifix  fastened  in  the  canvas  of  the  tent 
close  by,  and  for  a  moment  she  felt  a  faint  creeping  sadness  in 
her.  But  he  pressed  her  hand  more  closely,  and  she  was 
conscious  only  of  these  two  warmths — of  his  hand  above  her 
hand  and  of  the  desert  beneath  it.  Her  whole  life  seemed 
set  in  a  glory  of  fire,  in  a  heat  that  was  life-giving,  that  domi- 
nated her  and  evoked  at  the  same  time  all  of  power  that 
was  in  her,  causing  her  dormant  fires,  physical  and  spiritual,  to 
blaze  up  as  if  they  were  sheltered  and  fanned.  The  thought  of 
the  crucifix  faded.  It  was  as  if  the  fire  destroyed  it  and  it 
became  ashes — then  nothing.  She  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  distant 
fire  of  the  Arabs,  which  was  beginning  to  die  down  slowly  as 
the  night  grew  deeper. 

"  I  have  doubted  many  things,"  he  said.     "  I've  been  afraid." 

"You!  "she  said. 

"  Yes.     You  know  it." 

"  How  can  I  ?  Haven't  I  forgotten  everything — since  that 
day  in  the  garden?  " 

He  drew  up  her  hand  and  put  it  against  his  heart. 

"  I'm  jealous  of  the  desert  even,"  he  whispered.  "  I  won't  let 
you  touch  it  any  more  to-night." 

He  looked  into  her  eyes  and  saw  that  she  was  looking  at  the 
distant  fire,  steadily,  with  an  intense  eagerness. 

"  Why  do  you  do  that  ?  "  he  said. 

"  To-night  I  like  to  look  at  fire,"  she  answered. 


THE   JOURNEY  305 

"  Tell  me  why." 

It  is  as  if  I  looked  at  you,  at  all  that  there  is  in  you  that  you 
have  never  said,  never  been  able  to  say  to  me,  all  that  you  never 
can  say  to  me  but  that  I  know  all  the  same." 

"  But,"  he  said,  "  that  fire  is " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  put  up  his  hand  and 
turned  her  face  till  she  was  looking,  not  at  the  fire,  but  at  him. 

"  It  is  not  like  me,"  he  said.  "  Men  made  it,  and — it's  a  fire 
that  can  sink  into  ashes." 

An  expression  of  sudden  exaltation  shone  in  her  eyes. 

"  And  God  made  you,"  she  said.  "  And  put  into  you  the 
spark  that  is  eternal." 

And  now  again  she  thought,  she  dared,  she  loved  to  think  of 
the  crucifix  and  of  the  moment  when  he  would  see  it  in  the 
tent. 

"  And  God  made  you  love  me,"  she  said.     "  What  is  it?  " 

Androvsky  had  moved  suddenly,  as  if  he  were  going  to  get  up 
from  the  warm  ground. 

"Did  you ?" 

"  No,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  Go  on,  Domini.  Speak  to 
me." 

He  sat  still. 

A  sudden  longing  came  to  her  to  know  if  to-night  he  were 
feeling  as  she  was  the  sacredness  of  their  relation  to  each  other. 
Never  had  they  spoken  intimately  of  religion  or  of  the  mysteries 
that  lie  beyond  and  around  human  life.  Once  or  twice,  when 
she  had  been  about  to  open  her  heart  to  him,  to  let  him  under- 
stand her  deep  sense  of  the  things  unseen,  something  had  checked 
her,  something  in  him.  It  was  as  if  he  had  divined  her  inten- 
tion and  had  subtly  turned  her  from  it,  without  speech,  merely 
by  the  force  of  his  inward  determination  that  she  should  not 
break  through  her  reserve.  But  to-night,  with  his  hand  on  hers 
and  the  starry  darkness  above  them,  with  the  waste  stretching 
around  them,  and  the  cool  air  that  was  like  the  breath  of  liberty 
upon  their  faces,  she  was  unconscious  of  any  secret,  combative 
force  in  him.  It  was  impossible  to  her  to  think  there  could  have 
been  any  combat,  however  inward,  however  subtle,  between 
them.  Surely  if  it  were  ever  permitted  to  two  natures  to  be 
in  perfect  accord  theirs  were  in  perfect  accord  to-night. 

"  I  never  felt  the  presence  of  God  in  his  world  so  keenly  as  I 
feel  it  to-night,"  she  went  on,  drawing  a  little  closer  to  him. 
"  Even  in  the  church  to-day  he  seemed  farther  away  than  to- 
night. But  somehow — one  has  these  thoughts  without  know- 


306  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

ing  why — I  have  always  believed  that  the  farther  I  went  into  the 
desert  the  nearer  I  should  come  to  God." 

Androvsky  moved  again.  The  clasp  of  his  hand  on  hers 
loosened,  but  he  did  not  take  his  hand  away. 

"  Why  should — what  should  make  you  think  that?  "  he  asked 
slowly. 

"  Don't  you  know  what  the  Arabs  call  the  desert?  " 

"No.  What  do  they  call  it?" 

"  The  Garden  of  Allah." 

11  The  Garden  of  Allah!  "  he  repeated. 

There  was  a  sound  like  fear  in  his  voice.  Even  her  great  joy 
did  not  prevent  her  from  noticing  it,  and  she  remembered,  with  a 
thrill  of  pain,  where  and  under  what  circumstances  she  had  first 
heard  the  Arab's  name  for  the  desert. 

Could  it  be  that  this  man  she  loved  was  secretly  afraid  of 

something  in  the  desert,  some  influence,  some ?  Her 

thought  stopped  short,  like  a  thing  confused. 

"  Don't  you  think  it  a  very  beautiful  name?  "  she  asked,  with 
an  almost  fierce  longing  to  be  reassured,  to  be  made  to  know 
that  he,  like  her,  loved  the  thought  that  God  was  specially  near 
to  those  who  travelled  in  this  land  of  solitude. 

"Is  it  beautiful?" 

"  To  me  it  is.  It  makes  me  feel  as  if  in  the  desert  I  were 
specially  watched  over  and  protected,  even  as  if  I  were  specially 
loved  there." 

Suddenly  Androvsky  put  his  arm  round  her  and  strained  her 
to  him. 

"  By  me!  By  me!  "  he  said.  "  Think  of  me  to-night,  only 
of  me,  as  I  think  only  of  you." 

He  spoke  as  if  he  were  jealous  even  of  her  thought  of  God,  as 
if  he  did  not  understand  that  it  was  the  very  intensity  of  her 
love  for  him  that  made  her,  even  in  the  midst  of  the  passion  of 
the  body,  connect  their  love  of  each  other  with  God's  love  of 
them.  In  her  heart  this  overpowering  human  love  which,  in 
the  garden,  when  first  she  realised  it  fully,  had  seemed  to  leave 
no  room  in  her  for  love  of  God,  now  in  the  moment  when  it 
was  close  to  absolute  satisfaction  seemed  almost  to  be  one  with 
her  love  of  God.  Perhaps  no  man  could  understand  how,  in 
a  good  woman,  the  two  streams  of  the  human  love  which  implies 
the  intense  desire  of  the  flesh,  and  the  mystical  love  which  is 
absolutely  purged  of  that  desire,  can  flow  the  one  into  the  other 
and  mingk  their  waters.  She  tried  to  think  that,  and  then  she 
ceased  to  try.  Everything  was  forgotten  as  his  arms  held  hei 


THE  JOURNEY  307 

fast  in  the  night,  everything  except  this  great  force  of  human 
love  which  was  like  iron,  and  yet  soft  about  her,  which  was 
giving  and  wanting,  which  was  concentrated  upon  her  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  all  else,  plunging  the  universe  in  darkness  and  setting 
her  in  light. 

"  There  is  nothing  for  me  to-night  but  you,"  he  said,  crush- 
ing her  in  his  arms.  "  The  desert  is  your  garden.  To  me  it 
has  always  been  your  garden,  only  that,  put  here  for  you,  and 
for  me  because  you  love  me — but  for  me  only  because  of  that." 

The  Arabs'  fire  was  rapidly  dying  down. 

"  When  it  goes  out,  when  it  goes  out !  "  Androvsky  whispered 
in  her  ear. 

His  breath  stirred  the  thick  tresses  of  her  hair. 

"  Let  us  watch  it !  "  he  whispered. 

She  pressed  his  hand  but  did  not  reply.  She  could  not 
speak  any  more.  At  last  the  something  wild  and  lawless,  the 
something  that  was  more  than  passionate,  that  was  hot  and  even 
savage  in  her  nature,  had  risen  up  in  its  full  force  to  face  a 
similar  force  in  him,  which  insistently  called  it  and  which  it 
answered  without  shame. 

"  It  is  dying,"  Androvsky  said.  "  It  is  dying.  Look  how 
small  the  circle  of  the  flame  is,  how  the  darkness  is  creeping  up 
about  it !  Domini — do  you  see  ?  " 

She  pressed  his  hand  again. 

"Do  you  long  for  the  darkness?"  he  asked.  "Do  you, 
Domini?  The  desert  is  sending  it.  The  desert  is  sending  it 
for  you,  and  for  me  because  you  love  me." 

A  log  in  the  fire,  charred  by  the  flames,  'broke  in  two.  Part 
of  it  fell  down  into  the  heart  of  the  fire,  which  sent  up  a  long 
tongue  of  red  gold  flame. 

"  That  is  like  us,"  he  said.  "  Like  us  together  in  the 
darkness." 

She  felt  his  body  trembling,  as  if  the  vehemence  of  the  spirit 
confined  within  it  shook  it.  In  the  night  the  breeze  slightly 
increased,  making  the  flame  of  the  lamp  behind  them  in  the 
tent  flicker.  And  the  breeze  was  like  a  message,  brought  to 
them  from  the  desert  by  some  envoy  in  the  darkness,  telling 
them  not  to  be  afraid  of  their  wonderful  gift  of  freedom  with 
each  other,  but  to  take  it  open-handed,  open-hearted,  with  the 
great  courage  of  joy. 

"  Domini,  did  you  feel  that  gust  of  the  wind?  It  carried 
away  a  cloud  of  sparks  from  the  fire  and  brought  them  a  little 
way  towards  us.  Did  you  see?  Fire  wandering  on  the  wind 


3o8  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

through  the  night  calling  to  the  fire  that  is  in  us.  Wasn't  it 
beautiful  ?  Everything  is  beautiful  to-night.  There  were  never 
such  stars  before." 

She  looked  up  at  them.  Often  she  had  watched  the  stars, 
and  known  the  vague  longings,  the  almost  terrible  aspirations 
they  wake  in  their  watchers.  But  to  her  also  they  looked 
different  to-night,  nearer  to  the  earth,  she  thought,  brighter, 
more  living  than  ever  before,  like  strange  tenderness  made  visi- 
ble, peopling  the  night  with  an  unconquerable  sympathy.  The 
vast  firmament  was  surely  intent  upon  their  happiness.  Again 
the  breeze  came  to  them  across  the  waste,  cool  and  breathing 
of  the  dryness  of  the  sands.  Not  far  away  a  jackal  laughed. 
After  a  pause  it  was  answered  by  another  jackal  at  a  distance. 
The  voices  of  these  desert  beasts  brought  home  to  Domini  with 
an  intimacy  not  felt  by  her  before  the  exquisite  remoteness  of 
their  situation,  and  the  shrill,  discordant  noise,  rising  and  fall- 
ing with  a  sort  of  melancholy  and  sneering  mirth,  mingled  with 
bitterness,  was  like  a  delicate  music  in  her  ears. 

"  Hark!  "  Androvsky  whispered. 

The  first  jackal  laughed  once  more,  was  answered  again.  A 
third  beast,  evidently  much  farther  off,  lifted  up  a  faint  voice  like 
a  dismal  echo.  Then  there  was  silence. 

"  You  loved  that,  Domini.  It  was  like  the  calling  of  free- 
dom to  you — and  to  me.  We've  found  freedom;  we've  found 
it.  Let  us  feel  it.  Let  us  take  hold  of  it.  It  is  the  only  thing, 
the  only  thing.  But  you  can't  know  that  as  I  do,  Domini." 

Again  she  was  conscious  that  his  intensity  surpassed  hers,  and 
the  consciousness,  instead  of  saddening  or  vexing,  made  her  thrill 
with  joy. 

"  I  am  maddened  by  this  freedom,"  he  said ;  "  maddened  by 
it,  Domini.  I  can't  help — I  can't " 

He  laid  his  lips  upon  hers  in  a  desperate  caress  that  almost 
suffocated  her.  Then  he  took  his  lips  away  from  her  lips  and 
kissed  her  throat,  holding  her  head  back  against  his  shoulder. 
She  shut  her  eyes.  He  was  indeed  teaching  her  to  forget.  Even 
the  memory  of  the  day  in  the  garden  when  she  heard  the  church 
bell  chime  and  the  sound  of  Larbi's  flute  went  from  her.  She 
remembered  nothing  any  more.  The  past  was  lost  or  laid  in 
sleep  by  the  spell  of  sensation.  Her  nature  galloped  like  an 
Arab  horse  across  the  sands  towards  the  sun,  towards  the  fire 
that  sheds  warmth  afar  but  that  devours  all  that  draws  near  to 
it.  At  that  moment  she  connected  Androvsky  with  the  tremen- 
dous fires  eternally  blazing  in  the  sun.  She  had  a  desire  that  he 


THE  JOURNEY  309 

should  hurt  her  in  the  passionate  intensity  of  his  love  for  her. 
Her  nature,  which  till  now  had  been  ever  ready  to  spring  into 
hostility  at  an  accidental  touch,  which  had  shrunk  instinctively 
from  physical  contact  with  other  human  beings,  melted,  was 
utterly  transformed.  She  felt  that  she  was  now  the  opposite  of 
all  that  she  had  been — more  woman  than  any  other  woman  who 
had  ever  lived.  What  had  been  an  almost  cold  strength  in 
her  went  to  increase  the  completeness  of  this  yielding  to  one 
stronger  than  herself.  What  had  seemed  boyish  and  almost 
hard  in  her  died  away  utterly  under  the  embrace  of  this  fierce 
manhood. 

"  Domini,"  he  spoke,  whispering  while  he  kissed  her, 
"  Domini,  the  fire's  gone  out.  It's  dark." 

He  lifted  her  a  little  in  his  arms,  still  kissing  her. 

"  Domini,  it's  dark,  it's  dark." 

He  lifted  her  more.  She  stood  up,  with  his  arms  about 
her,  looking  towards  where  the  fire  had  been.  She  put  her 
hands  against  his  face  and  softly  pressed  it  back  from  hers, 
but  with  a  touch  that  was  a  caress.  He  yielded  to  her  at 
once. 

"  Look!  "  he  said.  "  Do  you  love  the  darkness?  Tell  me — 
tell  me  that  you  love  it." 

She  let  her  hand  glide  over  his  cheek  in  answer. 

"  Look  at  it.  Love  it.  All  the  desert  is  in  it,  and  our  love 
in  the  desert.  Let  us  stay  in  the  desert,  let  us  stay  in  it  for  ever 
— for  ever.  It  is  your  garden — yours.  It  has  brought  us  every- 
thing, Domini." 

He  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  again  and  again  over  his 
cheek  lingeringly.  Then,  abruptly,  he  dropped  it. 

"Come!"  he  said.     "Domini." 

And  he  drew  her  in  through  the  tent  door  almost  violently. 

A  stronger  gust  of  the  night  wind  followed  them.  Androvsky 
took  his  arms  slowly  from  Domini  and  turned  to  let  down  the 
flap  of  the  tent.  While  he  was  doing  this  she  stood  quite  still. 
The  flame  of  the  lamp  flickered,  throwing  its  light  now  here, 
now  there,  uneasily.  She  saw  the  crucifix  lit  up  for  an  instant 
and  the  white  bed  beneath  it.  The  wind  stirred  her  dark  hair 
and  was  cold  about  her  neck.  But  the  warmth  there  met  and 
defied  it.  In  that  brief  moment,  while  Androvsky  was  fasten- 
ing the  tent,  she  seemed  to  live  through  centuries  of  intense  and 
complicated  emotion.  When  the  light  flickered  over  the  cruci- 
fix she  felt  as  if  she  could  spend  her  life  in  passionate  adoration 
at  its  foot;  but  when  she  did  not  see  it,  and  the  wind,  coming 


3io  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

in  from  the  desert  through  the  tent  door,  where  she  heard  the 
movement  of  Androvsky,  stirred  in  her  hair,  she  felt  reckless, 
wayward,  savage — and  something  more.  A  cry  rose  in  her 
that  was  like  the  cry  of  a  stranger,  who  yet  was  of  her  and 
in  her,  and  from  whom  she  would  not  part. 

Again  the  lamp  flame  flickered  upon  the  crucifix.  Quickly, 
while  she  saw  the  crucifix  plainly,  she  went  forward  to  the  bed 
and  fell  on  her  knees  by  it,  bending  down  her  face  upon  its 
whiteness. 

When  Androvsky  had  fastened  the  tent  door  he  turned  round 
and  saw  her  kneeling.  He  stood  quite  still  as  if  petrified, 
staring  at  her.  Then,  as  the  flame,  now  sheltered  from 
the  wind,  burned  steadily,  he  saw  the  crucifix.  He  started  as  if 
someone  had  struck  him,  hesitated,  then,  with  a  look  of  fierce 
and  concentrated  resolution  on  his  face,  went  swiftly  to  the 
crucifix  and  pulled  it  from  the  canvas  roughly.  He  held  it  in 
his  hand  for  an  instant,  then  moved  to  the  tent  door  and 
stooped  to  unfasten  the  cords  that  held  it  to  the  pegs,  evidently 
with  the  intention  of  throwing  the  crucifix  out  into  the  night. 
But-  he  did  not  unfasten  the  cords.  Something — some  sudden 
change  of  feeling,  some  secret  and  powerful  reluctance — checked 
him.  He  thrust  the  crucifix  into  his  pocket.  Then,  returning 
to  where  Domini  was  kneeling,  he  put  his  arms  round  her  and 
drew  her  to  her  feet. 

She  did  not  resist  him.  Still  holding  her  in  his  arms  he 
blew  out  the  lamp. 

CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  Arabs  have  a  saying,  "  In  the  desert  one  forgets  every- 
things,  one  remembers  nothing  any  more." 

To  Domini  it  sometimes  seemed  the  truest  of  all  the  true  and 
beautiful  sayings  of  the  East.  Only  three  weeks  had  passed 
away  since  the  first  halt  at  Arba,  yet  already  her  life  at  Beni- 
Mora  was  faint  in  her  mind  as  the  dream  of  a  distant  past. 
Taken  by  the  vast  solitudes,  journeying  without  definite  aim 
from  one  oasis  to  another  through  empty  regions  bathed  in 
eternal  sunshine,  camping  often  in  the  midst  of  the  sand  by  one 
of  the  wells  sunk  for  the  nomads  by  the  French  engineers, 
strengthened  perpetually,  yet  perpetually  soothed,  by  airs  that 
were  soft  and  cool,  as  if  mingled  of  silk  and  snow,  they  lived 
surely  in  a  desert  dream  with  only  a  dream  behind  them.  They 
had  become  as  one  with  the  nomads,  whose  home  is  the  moving 


THE  JOURNEY  311 

tent,  whose  hearthstone  is  the  yellow  sand  of  the  dunes,  whose 
God  is  liberty. 

Domini  loved  this  life  with  a  love  which  had  already  become 
a  passion.  All  that  she  had  imagined  that  the  desert  might  be  to 
her  she  found  that  it  was.  In  its  so-called  monotony  she  dis- 
covered eternal  interest.  Of  old  she  had  thought  the  sea  the 
most  wonderful  thing  in  Nature.  In  the  desert  she  seemed  to 
possess  the  sea  with  something  added  to  it,  a  calm,  a  complete- 
ness, a  mystical  tenderness,  a  passionate  serenity.  She  thought 
of  the  sea  as  a  soul  striving  to  fulfil  its  noblest  aspirations,  to  be 
the  splendid  thing  it  knew  how  to  dream  of.  But  she  thought 
of  the  desert  as  a  soul  that  need  strive  no  more,  having  attained. 
And  she,  like  the  Arabs,  called  it  always  in  her  heart  the  Garden 
of  Allah.  For  in  this  wonderful  calm,  bright  as  the  child's  idea 
of  heaven,  clear  as  a  crystal  with  a  sunbeam  caught  in  it,  silent 
as  a  prayer  that  will  be  answered  silently,  God  seemed  to  draw 
very  near  to  his  wandering  children.  In  the  desert  was  the  still, 
small  voice,  and  the  still,  small  voice  was  the  Lord. 

Often  at  dawn  or  sundown,  when,  perhaps  in  the  distance  of 
the  sands,  or  near  at  hand  beneath  the  shade  of  the  palms  of 
some  oasis  by  a  waterspring,  she  watched  the  desert  men  in  their 
patched  rags,  with  their  lean,  bronzed  faces  and  eagle  eyes  turned 
towards  Mecca,  bowing  their  heads  in  prayer  to  the  soil  that  the 
sun  made  hot,  she  remembered  Count  Anteoni's  words,  "  I  like 
to  see  men  praying  in  the  desert,"  and  she  understood  with  all 
her  heart  and  soul  why.  For  the  life  of  the  desert  was  the  most 
perfect  liberty  that  could  be  found  on  earth,  and  to  see  men  thus 
worshipping  in  liberty  set  before  her  a  vision  of  free  will  upon 
the  heights.  When  she  thought  of  the  world  she  had  known 
and  left,  of  the  men  who  would  always  live  in  it  and  know  no 
other  world,  she  was  saddened  for  a  moment.  Could  she  ever 
find  elsewhere  such  joy  as  she  had  found  in  the  simple  and 
unfettered  life  of  the  wastes?  Could  she  ever  exchange  this 
life  for  another  life,  even  with  Androvsky? 

One  day  she  spoke  to  him  of  her  intense  joy  in  the  wandering 
fate,  and  the  pain  that  came  to  her  whenever  she  thought  of  ex- 
changing it  for  a  life  of  civilisation  in  the  midst  of  fixed  groups 
of  men. 

They  had  halted  for  the  noonday  rest  at  a  place  called  Sidi- 
Hamdam,  and  in  the  afternoon  were  going  to  ride  on  to  a  Bordj 
called  Mogar,  where  they  meant  to  stay  two  or  three  days,  as 
Batouch  had  told  them  it  was  a  good  halting-place,  and  near  to 
haunts  of  the  gazelle^  The  tents  had  already  gone  forward,  and 


3i2          f       THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

Domini  and  Androvsky  were  lying  upon  a  rug  spread  on  the 
sand,  in  the  shadow  of  the  grey  wall  of  a  traveller's  house  beside 
a  well.  Behind  them  their  horses  were  tethered  to  an  iron  ring 
in  the  wall.  Batouch  and  Ali  were  in  the  court  of  the  house, 
talking  to  the  Arab  guardian  who  dwelt  there,  but  their  voices 
were  not  audible  by  the  well,  and  absolute  silence,  reigned,  the 
intense  yet  light  silence  that  is  in  the  desert  at  noontide,  when  the 
sun  is  at  the  zenith,  when  the  nomad  sleeps  under  his  low-pitched 
tent,  and  the  gardeners  in  the  oasis  cease  even  from  pretending 
to  work  among  the  palms.  From  before  the  well  the  ground 
sank  to  a  plain  of  pale  grey  sand,  which  stretched  away  to  a 
village  hard  in  aspect,  as  if  carved  out  of  bronze  and  all  in  one 
piece.  In  the  centre  of  it  rose  a  mosque  with  a  minaret  and 
a  number  of  cupolas,  faintly  gilded  and  shining  modestly  under 
the  fierce  rays  of  the  sun. 

At  the  foot  of  the  village  the  ground  was  white  with  salt- 
petre, which  resembled  a  covering  of  new-fallen  snow.  To 
right  and  left  of  it  were  isolated  groups  of  palms  growing  in 
threes  and  fours,  like  trees  that  had  formed  themselves  into 
cliques  and  set  careful  barriers  of  sand  between  themselves  and 
their  despised  brethren.  Here  and  there  on  the  grey  sand  dark 
patches  showed  where  nomads  had  pitched  their  tents.  But 
there  was  no  movement  of  human  life.  No  camels  were  visible. 
No  guard  dogs  barked.  The  noon  held  all  things  in  its  golden 
grip. 

"  Boris !  "  Domini  said,  breaking  a  long  silence. 

"Yes,  Domini?" 

He  turned  towards  her  on  the  rug,  stretching  his  long,  thin 
body  lazily  as  if  in  supreme  physical  contentment. 

"  You  know  that  saying  of  the  Arabs  about  forgetting  every- 
thing in  the  desert?  " 

11  Yes,  Domini,  I  know  it." 

"  How  long  shall  we  stay  in  this  world  of  f orgetf ulness  ?  " 

He  lifted  himself  up  on  his  elbow  quickly,  and  fixed  his  eyes 
on  hers. 

"How  long!" 

"  Yes." 

"  But — do  you  wish  to  leave  it?     Are  you  tired  of  it?" 

There  was  a  note  of  sharp  anxiety  in  his  voice. 

"  I  don't  answer  such  a  question,"  she  said,  smiling  at 
him. 

"  Ah,  then,  why  do  you  try  to  frighten  me?  " 

She  put  her  hand  in  his.. 


THE   JOURNEY  3*3 

"  How  burnt  you  are !  "  she  said.  "  You  are  like  an  Arab  of 
the  South." 

"  Let  me  become  more  like  one.     There's  health  here." 

"  And  peace,  perfect  peace." 

He  said  nothing.     He  was  looking  down  now  at  the  sand. 

She  laid  her  lips  on  his  warm  brown  hand. 

"  There's  all  I  .want  here,"  she  added. 

"  Let  us  stay  here." 

"  But  some  day  we  must  go  back,  mustn't  we?  " 

"Why?" 

"  Can  anything  be  lifelong — even  our  honeymoon  ?  " 

"  Suppose  we  choose  that  it  shall  be?  " 

"  Can  we  choose  such  a  thing  ?  Is  anybody  allowed  to 
choose  to  live  always  quite  happily  without  duties?  Sometimes 
I  wonder.  I  love  this  wandering  life  so  much,  I  am  so  happy  in 
it,  that  I  sometimes  think  it  cannot  last  much  longer." 

He  began  to  sift  the  sand  through  his  fingers  swiftly. 

"  Duties?  "  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Yes.  Oughtn't  we  to  do  something  presently,  something 
besides  being  happy  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Domini?  " 

"  I  hardly  know,  I  don't  know.     You  tell  me." 

There  was  an  urging  in  her  voice,  as  if  she  wanted,  almost 
demanded,  something  of  him. 

"  You  mean  that  a  man  must  do  some  work  in  his  life  if  he  is 
to  keep  himself  a  man,"  he  said,  not  as  if  he  were  asking  a 
question. 

He  spoke  reluctantly  but  firmly. 

"  You  know,"  he  added,  "  that  I  have  worked  hard  all  my 
life,  hard  like  a  labourer." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  said. 

She  stroked  his  hand,  that  was  worn  and  rough,  and  spoke 
eloquently  of  manual  toil  it  had  accomplished  in  the  past. 

"  I  know.  Before  we  were  married,  that  day  when  we  sat 
in  the  garden,  you  told  me  your  life  and  I  told  you  mine.  How 
different  they  have  been !  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

He  lit  a  cigar  and  watched  the  smoke  curling  up  into  the 
gold  of  the  sunlit  atmosphere. 

"  Mine  in  the  midst  of  the  world  and  yours  so  far  away  from 
it.  I  often  imagine  that  little  place,  El  Krori,  the  garden, 
your  brother,  your  twin-brother  Stephen,  that  one-eyed  Arab 
servant — what  was  his  name?  " 


THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  El  Magin." 

"  Yes,  El  Magin,  who  taught  you  to  play  Cora  and  to  sing 
Arab  songs,  and  to  eat  cous-cous  with  your  fingers.  I  can 
almost  see  Father  Andre,  from  whom  you  learnt  to  love  the 
Classics,  and  who  talked  to  you  of  philosophy.  He's  dead  too, 
isn't  he,  like  your  mother?  " 

"  I  don't  know  whether  Pere  Andre  is  dead.  I  have  lost 
sight  of  him,"  Androvsky  said. 

He  still  looked  steadily  at  the  rings  of  smoke  curling  up  into 
the  golden  air.  There  was  in  his  voice  a  sound  of  embarrass- 
ment. She  guessed  that  it  came  from  the  consciousness  of  the 
pain  he  must  have  caused  the  good  priest  who  had  loved  him 
when  he  ceased  from  practising  the  religion  in  which  he  had  been 
brought  up.  Even  to  her  he  never  spoke  frankly  on  religious 
subjects,  but  she  knew  that  he  had  been  baptised  a  Catholic  and 
been  educated  for  a  time  by  priests.  She  knew,  too,  that  he  was 
no  longer  a  practising  Catholic,  and  that,  for  some  reason,  he 
dreaded  any  intimacy  with  priests.  He  never  spoke  against 
them.  He  had  scarcely  ever  spoken  of  them  to  her.  But  she 
remembered  his  words  in  the  garden,  "  I  do  not  care  for  priests." 
She  remembered,  too,  his  action  in  the  tunnel  on  the  day  of  his 
arrival  in  Beni-Mora.  And  the  reticence  that  they  both  pre- 
served on  the  subject  of  religion,  and  its  reason,  were  the  only 
causes  of  regret  in  this  desert  dream  of  hers.  Even  this  regret, 
too,  often  faded  in  hope.  For  in  the  desert,  the  Garden  of 
Allah,  she  had  it  borne  in  upon  her  that  Androvsky  would  dis- 
cover what  he  must  surely  secretly  be  seeking — the  truth  that 
each  man  must  find  for  himself,  truth  for  him  of  the  eventual 
existence  in  which  the  mysteries  of  this  present  existence  will 
be  made  plain,  and  of  the  Power  that  has  fashioned  all 
things. 

And  she  was  able  to  hope  in  silence,  as  women  do  for  the 
men  they  love. 

"  Don't  think  I  do  not  realise  that  you  have  worked,"  she 
went  on  after  a  pause.  "  You  told  me  how  you  always  culti- 
vated the  land  yourself,  even  when  you  were  still  a  boy,  that 
you  directed  the  Spanish  labourers  in  the  vineyards,  that — you 
have  earned  a  long  holiday.  But  should  it  last  for  ever?  " 

"  You  are  right.  Well,  let  us  take  an  oasis;  let  us  become 
palm  gardeners  like  that  Frenchman  at  Meskoutine." 

"  And  build  ourselves  an  African  house,  white,  with  a  terrace 
roof." 

"  And  sell  our  dates.     We  can  give  employment  to  the  Arabs. 


THE  JOURNEY  315 

We  can  choose  the  poorest.  We  can  improve  their  lives.  After 
all,  if  we  owe  a  debt  to  anyone  it  is  to  them,  to  the  desert.  Let 
us  pay  our  debt  to  the  desert  men  and  live  in  the  desert." 

"  It  would  be  an  ideal  life,"  she  said  with  her  eyes  shining 
on  his. 

"  And  a  possible  life.  Let  us  live  it.  I  could  not  bear  to 
leave  the  desert.  Where  should  we  go  ?  " 

"Where  should  we  go!  "  she  repeated. 

She  was  still  looking  at  him,  but  now  the  expression  of  her 
eyes  had  quite  changed.  They  had  become  grave,  and  examined 
him  seriously  with  a  sort  of  deep  inquiry.  He  sat  upon 
the  Arab  rug,  leaning  his  back  against  the  wall  of  the  traveller's 
house. 

"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that,  Domini?  "  he  asked  with 
a  sudden  stirring  of  something  that  was  like  uneasiness. 

"  I !  I  was  wondering  what  you  would  like,  what  other  life 
would  suit  you." 

"  Yes?  "  he  said  quickly.     "  Yes?  " 

"  It's  very  strange,  Boris,  but  I  cannot  connect  you  with  any- 
thing but  the  desert,  or  see  you  anywhere  but  in  the  desert.  I 
cannot  even  imagine  you  among  your  vines  in  Tunisia." 

"  They  were  not  altogether  mine,"  he  corrected,  still  with  a 
certain  excitement  which  he  evidently  endeavoured  to  repress. 
"  I — I  had  the  right,  the  duty  of  cultivating  the  land." 

"  Well,  however  it  was,  you  were  always  at  work ;  you  were 
responsible,  weren't  you?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  can't  see  you  even  in  the  vineyards  or  the  wheat-fields. 
Isn't  it  strange  ?  " 

She  was  always  looking  at  him  with  the  same  deep  and  wholly 
unself -conscious  inquiry. 

"  And  as  to  London,  Paris " 

Suddenly  she  burst  into  a  little  laugh  and  her  gravity 
vanished. 

"  I  think  you  would  hate  them,"  she  said.  "  And  they — they 
wouldn't  like  you  because  they  wouldn't  understand  you." 

"  Let  us  buy  our  oasis,"  he  said  abruptly.  "  Build  our 
African  house,  sell  our  dates  and  remain  in  the  desert.  I  hear 
Batouch.  It  must  be  time  to  ride  on  to  Mogar.  Batouch! 
Batouch!" 

Batouch  came  from  the  courtyard  of  the  house  wiping  the 
remains  of  a  cous-cous  from  his  languid  lips. 

"  Untie  the  horses,"  said  Androvsky. 


3i6  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

"  But,  Monsieur,  it  is  still  too  hot  to  travel.  Look !  No  one 
is  stirring.  All  the  village  is  asleep." 

He  waved  his  enormous  hand,  with  henna-tinted  nails,  towards 
the  distant  town,  carved  surely  out  of  one  huge  piece  of  bronze. 

"  Untie  the  horses.  There  are  gazelle  in  the  plain  near 
Mqgar.  Didn't  you  tell  me?  " 

"  Yes,  Monsieur,  but ' 

"  We'll  get  there  early  and  go  out  after  them  at  sunset. 
Now,  Domini." 

They  rode  away  in  the  burning  heat  of  the  noon  towards  the 
southwest  across  the  vast  plains  of  grey  sand,  followed  at  a 
short  distance  by  Batouch  and  All. 

"  Monsieur  is  mad  to  start  in  the  noon,"  grumbled  Batouch. 
"  But  Monsieur  is  not  like  Madame.  He  may  live  in  the  desert 
till  he  is  old  and  his  hair  is  grey  as  the  sand,  but  he  will  never 
be  an  Arab  in  his  heart." 

"Why,  Batouch-ben-Brahim?" 

"  He  cannot  rest.  To  Madame  the  desert  gives  its  calm,  but 

to  Monsieur "  He  did  not  finish  his  sentence.  In  front 

Domini  and  Androvsky  had  put  their  horses  to  a  gallop.  The 
sand  flew  up  in  a  thin  cloud  around  them. 

"  Nom  d'un  chien !  "  said  Batouch,  who,  in  unpoetical 
moments,  occasionally  indulged  in  the  expletives  of  the  French 
infidels  who  were  his  country's  rulers.  "  What  is  there  in  the 
mind  of  Monsieur  which  makes  him  ride  as  if  he  fled  from  an 
enemy?  " 

"  I  know  not,  but  he  goes  like  a  hare  before  the  sloughi, 
Batouch-ben  Brahim,"  answered  Ali,  gravely. 

Then  they  sent  their  horses  on  in  chase  of  the  cloud  of  sand 
towards  the  southwest. 

About  four  in  the  afternoon  they  reached  the  camp  at  Mogar. 

As  they  rode  in  slowly,  for  their  horses  were  tired  and  stream- 
ing with  heat  after  their  long  canter  across  the  sands,  both 
Domini  and  Androvsky  were  struck  by  the  novelty  of  this  halt- 
ing-place, which  was  quite  unlike  anything  they  had  yet  seen. 
The  ground  rose  gently  but  continuously  for  a  considerable  time 
before  they  saw  in  the  distance  the  pitched  tents  with  the  dark 
forms  of  the  camels  and  mules.  Here  they  were  out  of  the 
sands,  and  upon  hard,  sterile  soil  covered  with  small  stones  em- 
bedded in  the  earth.  Beyond  the  tents  they  could  see  nothing 
but  the  sky,  which  was  now  covered  with  small,  ribbed  grey 
clouds,  sad-coloured  and  autumnal,  and  a  lonely  tower  built  of 
stone,  which  rose  from  the  waste  at  about  two  hundred  yards 


THE  JOURNEY  317 

from  the  tents  to  the  east.  Although  they  could  see  so  little, 
however,  they  were  impressed  with  a  sensation  that  they  were 
on  the  edge  of  some  vast  vision,  of  some  grandiose  effect  of 
Nature,  that  would  bring  to  them  a  new  and  astonishing  knowl- 
edge of  the  desert.  Perhaps  it  was  the  sight  of  the  distant  tower 
pointing  to  the  grey  clouds  that  stirred  in  them  this  almost 
excited  feeling  of  expectation. 

"  It  is  like  a  watch-tower,"  Domini  said,  pointing  with  her 
whip.  "  But  who  could  live  in  such  a  place,  far  from  any 
oasis?" 

"  And  what  can  it  overlook?  "  said  Androvsky.  "  This  is  the 
nearest  horizon  line  we  have  seen  since  we  came  into  the  desert." 

"  Yes,  but " 

She  glanced  at  him  as  they  put  their  horses  into  a  gentle 
canter.  Then  she  added: 

"  You,  too,  feel  that  we  are  coming  to  something  tremendous, 
don't  you?  " 

Her  horse  whinnied  shrilly.  Domini  stroked  his  foam- 
flecked  neck  with  her  hand. 

"  Abou  is  as  full  of  anticipation  as  we  are,"  she  said. 
Androvsky  was  looking  towards  the  tower. 

"  That  was  built  for  French  soldiers,"  he  said.  A  moment 
afterwards  he  added: 

"  I  wonder  why  Batouch  chose  this  place  for  us  to  camp  in  ?  " 
There  was  a  faint  sound  as  of  irritation  in  his  voice. 

"  Perhaps  we  shall  know  in  a  minute,"  Domini  answered. 
They  cantered  on.  Their  horses'  hoofs  rang  with  a  hard  sound 
on  the  stony  ground. 

"  It's  inhospitable  here,"  Androvsky  said.  She  looked  at 
him  in  surprise. 

"  I  never  knew  you  to  take  a  dislike  to  any  halting-place 
before,"  she  said.  "What's  the  matter,  Boris?" 

He  smiled  at  her,  but  almost  immediately  his  face  was  clouded 
by  the  shadow  of  a  gloom  that  seemed  to  respond  to  the  gloom 
of  the  sky.  And  he  fixed  his  eyes  again  upon  the  tower. 

"  I  like  a  far  horizon,"  he  answered.  "  And  there's  no  sun 
to-day." 

"  I  suppose  even  in  the  desert  we  cannot  have  it  always,"  she 
said.  And  in  her  voice,  too,  there  was  a  touch  of  melancholy,  as 
if  she  had  caught  his  mood.  A  minute  later  she  added : 

"  I  feel  exactly  as  if  I  were  on  a  hill  top  and  were  coming  to 
a  view  of  the  sea." 

Almost  as  she  spoke  they  cantered  in  among  the  tents  of  the 


3i8  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

attendants,  and  reined  in  their  horses  at  the  edge  of  a  slope  that 
was  almost  a  precipice.  Then  they  sat  still  in  their  saddles, 
gazing. 

They  had  been  living  for  weeks  in  the  midst  of  vastness,  and 
had  become  accustomed  to  see  stretched  out  around  them 
immense  tracts  of  land  melting  away  into  far  blue  distances,  but 
this  view  from  Mogar  made  them  catch  their  breath  and  stirred 
their  pulses. 

It  was  gigantic.  There  was  even  something  unnatural  in  its 
appearance  of  immensity,  as  if  it  were,  perhaps,  deceptive,  and 
existed  in  their  vision  of  it  only.  So,  surely,  might  look  a  plain 
to  one  who  had  taken  haschish,  which  enlarges,  makes  monstrous 
and  threateningly  terrific.  Domini  had  a  feeling  that  no  human 
eyes  could  really  see  such  infinite  tracts  of  land  and  water  as 
those  she  seemed  to  be  seeing  at  this  moment.  For  there  was 
water  here,  in  the  midst  of  the  desert.  Infinite  expanses  of  sea 
met  infinite  plains  of  snow.  Or  so  it  seemed  to  both  of  them. 
And  the  sea  was  grey  and  calm  as  a  winter  sea,  breathing  its 
plaint  along  a  winter  land.  From  it,  here  and  there,  rose  islets 
whose  low  cliffs  were  a  deep  red  like  the  red  of  sandstone,  a  sad 
colour  that  suggests  tragedy,  islets  that  looked  desolate,  and  as 
if  no  life  had  ever  been  upon  them,  or  could  be.  Back  from  the 
snowy  plains  stretched  sand  dunes  of  the  palest  primrose  colour, 
sand  dunes  innumerable,  myriads  and  myriads  of  them,  rising 
and  falling,  rising  and  falling,  till  they  were  lost  in  the  grey 
distance  of  this  silent  world.  In  the  foreground,  at  their  horses' 
feet,  wound  from  the  hill  summit  a  broad  track  faintly  marked 
in  the  deep  sand,  and  flanked  by  huge  dunes  shaped,  by  the  action 
of  the  winds,  into  grotesque  semblances  of  monsters,  leviathans, 
beasts  with  prodigious  humps,  sphinxes,  whales.  This  track  was 
presently  lost  in  the  blanched  plains.  Far  away,  immeasurably 
far,  sea  and  snow  blended  and  faded  into  the  cloudy  grey. 
Above  the  near  dunes  two  desert  eagles  were  slowly  wheeling  in 
a  weary  flight,  occasionally  sinking  towards  the  sand,  then  rising 
again  towards  the  clouds.  And  the  track  was  strewn  with  the 
bleached  bones  of  camels  that  had  perished,  or  that  had  been 
slaughtered,  on  some  long  desert  march. 

To  the  left  of  them  the  solitary  tower  commanded  this  terrific 
vision  of  desolation,  seemed  to  watch  it  steadily,  yet  furtively, 
with  its  tiny  loophole  eyes. 

"  We  have  come  into  winter,"  Domini  murmured. 

She  looked  at  the  white  of  the  camels'  bones,  of  the  plains, 
at  the  grey  white  of  the  sky,  at  the  yellow  pallor  of  the  dunes. 


THE  JOURNEY  319 

"  How  wonderful !     How  terrible !  "  she  said. 

She  drew  her  horse  to  one  side,  a  little  nearer  to  Androvsky's. 

"  Does  the  Russian  in  you  greet  this  land?  "  she  asked  him. 

He  did  not  reply.  He  seemed  to  be  held  in  thrall  by  the  sad 
immensity  before  them. 

"  I  realise  here  what  it  must  be  to  die  in  the  desert,  to  be 
killed  by  it — by  hunger,  by  thirst  in  it,"  she  said  presently, 
speaking,  as  if  to  herself,  and  looking  out  over  the  mirage  sea, 
the  mirage  snow.  "  This  is  the  first  time  I  have  really  felt  the 
terror  of  the  desert." 

Her  horse  drooped  its  head  till  its  nose  nearly  touched  the 
earth,  and  shook  itself  in  a  long  shiver.  She  shivered  too,  as  if 
constrained  to  echo  an  animal's  distress. 

"  Things  have  died  here,"  Androvsky  said,  speaking  at  last  in 
a  low  voice  and  pointing  with  his  long-lashed  whip  towards  the 
camels'  skeletons.  "  Come,  Domini,  the  horses  are  tired." 

He  cast  another  glance  at  the  tower,  and  they  dismounted  by 
their  tent,  which  was  pitched  at  the  very  edge  of  the  steep  slope 
that  sank  down  to  the  beast-like  shapes  of  the  near  dunes. 

An  hour  later  Domini  said  to  Androvsky: 

"  You  won't  go  after  gazelle  this  evening  surely?  " 

They  had  been  having  coffee  in  the  tent  and  had  just 
finished.  Androvsky  got  up  from  his  chair  and  went  to  the  tent 
door.  The  grey  of  the  sky  was  pierced  by  a  gleaming  shaft 
from  the  sun. 

"  Do  you  mind  if  I  go?  "  he  said,  turning  towards  her  after  a 
glance  to  the  desert. 

"  No,  but  aren't  you  tired  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  I  couldn't  ride,  and  now  I  can  ride.  I  couldn't  shoot,  and 
I'm  just  beginning " 

"  Go,"  she  said  quickly.  "  Besides,  we  want  gazelle  for 
dinner,  Batouch  says,  though  I  don't  suppose  we  should  starve 
without  it."  She  came  to  the  tent  door  and  stood  beside  him, 
and  he  put  his  arm  around  her. 

"  If  I  were  alone  here,  Boris,"  she  said,  leaning  against  his 
shoulder,  "  I  believe  I  should  feel  horribly  sad  to-day." 

"Shall  I  stay?" 

He  pressed  her  against  him. 

"  No.  I  shall  know  you  are  coming  back.  Oh,  how  extraor- 
dinary it  is  to  think  we  lived  so  many  years  without  knowing 
of  each  other's  existence,  that  we  lived  alone.  Were  you  ever 
happy?" 


320  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

He  hesitated  before  he  replied. 

"  I  sometimes  thought  I  was." 

"  But  do  you  think  now  you  ever  really  were?  " 

"  I  don't  know — perhaps  in  a  lonely  sort  of  way." 

"  You  can  never  be  happy  in  that  way  now?  " 

He  said  nothing,  but,  after  a  moment,  he  kissed  her  long  and 
hard,  and  as  if  he  wanted  to  draw  her  being  into  his  through 
the  door  of  his  lips. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  releasing  her.  "  I  shall  be  back  directly 
after  sundown." 

"  Yes.  Don't  wait  for  the  dark  down  there.  If  you  were 
lost  in  the  dunes !  " 

She  pointed  to  the  distant  sand  hills  rising  and  falling 
monotonously  to  the  horizon. 

"  If  you  are  not  back  in  good  time,"  she  said,  "  I  shall  stand 
by  the  tower  and  wave  a  brand  from  the  fire." 

"Why  by  the  tower?" 

"  The  ground  is  highest  by  the  tower." 

She  watched  him  ride  away  on  a  mule,  with  two  Arabs  carry- 
ing guns.  They  went  towards  the  plains  of  saltpetre  that  looked 
like  snow  beside  the  sea  that  was  only  a  mirage.  Then  she 
turned  back  into  the  tent,  took  up  a*  volume  of  Fromentin's,  and 
sat  down  in  a  folding-chair  at  the  tent  door.  She  read  a  little, 
but  it  was  difficult  to  read  with  the  mirage  beneath  her.  Per- 
petually her  eyes  were  attracted  from  the  book  to  its  mystery 
and  plaintive  sadness,  that  was  like  the  sadness  of  something 
unearthly,  of  a  spirit  that  did  not  move  but  that  suffered.  She 
did  not  put  away  the  book,  but  presently  she  laid  it  down  on  her 
knees,  open,  and  sat  gazing.  Androvsky  had  disappeared  with 
the  Arabs  into  some  fold  of  the  sands.  The  sun-ray  had  van- 
ished with  him.  Without  Androvsky  and  the  sun — she  still  con- 
nected them  together,  and  knew  she  would  for  ever. 

The  melancholy  of  this  desert  scene  was  increased  for  her  till 
it  became  oppressive  and  lay  upon  her  like  a  heavy  weight.  She 
was  not  a  woman  inclined  to  any  morbid  imaginings.  Indeed, 
all  that  was  morbid  roused  in  her  an  instinctive  disgust.  But 
the  sudden  greyness  of  the  weather,  coming  after  weeks  of  ardent 
sunshine,  and  combined  with  the  fantastic  desolation  of  the 
landscape,  which  was  half  real  and  half  unreal,  turned  her  for 
the  moment  towards  a  dreariness  of  spirit  that  was  rare  in  her. 

She  realised  suddenly,  as  she  looked  and  did  not  see 
Androvsky  even  as  a  black  and  moving  speck  upon  the  plain,- 
what  the  desert  would  seem  to  her  without  him,  even  in  sunshine, 


THE  JOURNEY  321 

the  awfulness  of  the  desolation  of  it,  the  horror  of  its  distances. 
And  realising  this  she  also  realised  the  uncertainty  of  the  human 
life  in  connection  with  any  other  human  life.  To  be  dependent 
on  another  is  to  double  the  sum  of  the  terrors  of  uncertainty. 
She  had  done  that. 

If'  the  immeasurable  sands  took  Androvsky  and  never  gave 
him  back  to  her!  What  would  she  do? 

She  gazed  at  the  mirage  sea  with  its  dim  red  islands,  and  at 
the  sad  white  plains  along  its  edge. 

Winter — she  would  be  plunged  in  eternal  winter.  And  each 
human  life  hangs  on  a  thread.  All  deep  love,  all  consuming 
passion,  holds  a  great  fear  within  the  circle  of  a  great  glory. 
To-day  the  fear  within  the  circle  of  her  glory  seemed  to  grow. 
But  she  suddenly  realised  that  she  ought  to  dominate  it,  to 
confine  it — as  it  were — to  its  original  and  permanent  pro- 
portions. 

She  got  up,  came  out  upon  the  edge  of  the  hill,  and  walked 
along  it  slowly  towards  the  tower. 

Outside,  freed  from  the  shadow  of  the  tent,  she  felt  less 
oppressed,  though  still  melancholy,  and  even  slightly  appre- 
hensive, as  if  some  trouble  were  coming  to  her  and  were  near  at 
hand.  Mentally  she  had  made  the  tower  the  limit  of  her  walk, 
and  therefore  when  she  reached  it  she  stood  still. 

It  was  a  squat,  square  tower,  strongly  constructed,  with  loop- 
holes in  the  four  sides,  and  now  that  she  was  by  it  she  saw  built 
out  at  the  back  of  it  a  low  house  with  small  shuttered  windows 
and  a  narrow  courtyard  for  mules.  No  doubt  Androvsky  was 
right  and  French  soldiers  had  once  been  here  to  work  the  optic 
telegraph.  She  thought  of  the  recruits  and  of  Marseilles,  of 
Notre  Dame  de  la  Garde,  the  Mother  of  God,  looking  towards 
Africa.  Such  recruits  came  to  live  in  such  strange  houses  as 
this  tower  lost  in  the  desert  and  now  abandoned.  She  glanced 
at  the  shuttered  windows  and  turned  back  towards  the  tent ;  but 
something  in  the  situation  of  the  tower — perhaps  the  fact  that  it 
was  set  on  the  highest  point  of  the  ground — attracted  her,  and 
she  presently  made  Batouch  bring  her  out  some  rugs  and  en- 
sconced herself  under  its  shadow,  facing  the  mirage  sea. 

How  long  she  sat  there  she  did  not  know.  Mirage  hypnotises 
the  imaginative  and  suggests  to  them  dreams  strange  and 
ethereal,  sad  sometimes,  as  itself.  How  long  she  might  have 
sat  there  dreaming,  but  for  an  interruption,  she  knew  still  less. 
It  was  towards  evening,  however,  but  before  evening  had  fallen, 
that  a  weary  and  travel-stained  party  of  three  French  soldiers, 


322  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

Zouaves,  and  an  officer  rode  slowly  up  the  sandy  track  from  the 
dunes.  They  were  mounted  on  mules,  and  carried  their  small 
baggage  with  them  on  two  led  mules.  When  they  reached  the 
top  of  the  hill  they  turned  to  the  right  and  came  towards  the 
tower.  The  officer  was  a  little  in  advance  of  his  men.  He  was 
a  smart-looking,  fair  man  of  perhaps  thirty-two,  with  blonde 
moustaches,  blue  eyes  with  blonde  lashes,  and  hair  very  much 
the  colour  of  the  sand  dunes.  His  face  was  bright  red,  burnt, 
as  a  fair  delicate  skin  burns,  by  the  sun.  His  eyes,  although  pro- 
tected by  large  sun  spectacles,  were  inflamed.  The  skin  was 
peeling  from  his  nose.  His  hair  was  full  of  sand,  and  he  rode 
leaning  forward  over  his  animal's  neck,  holding  the  reins  loosely 
in  his  hands,  that  seemed  nerveless  from  fatigue.  Yet  he  looked 
smart  and  well-bred  despite  his  evident  exhaustion,  as  if  on 
parade  he  would  be  a  dashing  officer.  It  was  evident  that  both 
he  and  his  men  were  riding  in  from  some  tremendous  journey. 
The  latter  looked  dog-tired,  scarcely  human  in  their  collapse. 
They  kept  on  their  mules  with  difficulty,  shaking  this  way  and 
that  like  sacks,  with  their  unshaven  chins  wagging  loosely  up  and 
down.  But  as  they  saw  the  tower  they  began  to  sing  in  chorus 
half  under  their  breath,  and  leaning  their  broad  hands  on  the 
necks  of  the  beasts  for  support  they  looked  with  a  sort  of 
haggard  eagerness  in  its  direction. 

Domini  was  roused  from  her  contemplation  of  the  mirage 
and  the  day-dreams  it  suggested  by  the  approach  of  this  small 
cavalcade.  The  officer  was  almost  upon  her  ere  she  heard  the 
clatter  of  his  mule  among  the  stones.  She  looked  up,  startled, 
and  he  looked  down,  even  more  surprised,  apparently,  to  see  a 
lady  ensconced  at  the  foot  of  the  tower.  His  astonishment  and 
exhaustion  did  not,  however,  get  the  better  of  his  instinctive 
good  breeding,  and  sitting  straight  up  in  the  saddle  he  took  off 
his  sun  helmet  and  asked  Domini's  pardon  for  disturbing  her. 

"  But  this  is  my  home  for  the  night,  Madame,"  he  added,  at 
the  same  time  drawing  a  key  from  the  pocket  of  his  loose  trousers. 
"And  I'm  thankful  to  reach  it.  Ma  foil  there  have  been  several 
moments  in  the  last  days  when  I  never  thought  to  see  Mogar.-" 

Slowly  he  swung  himself  off  his  mule  and  stood  up,  catching 
011  to  the  saddle  with  one  hand. 

"  F-f-f-f !  "  he  said,  pursing  his  lips.  "  I  can  hardly  stand. 
Excuse  me,  Madame." 

Domini  had  got  up. 

"  You  are  tired  out,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  and  his  men, 
who  had  now  come  up,  with  interest. 


THE   JOURNEY  323 

"  Pretty  well  indeed.  We  have  been  three  days  lost  in  the 
great  dunes  in  a  sand-storm,  and  hit  the  track  here  just  as  we 
were  preparing  for  a — well,  a  great  event." 

"  A  great  event?"  said  Domini. 

"  The  last  in  a  man's  life,  Madame." 

He  spoke  simply,  even  with  a  light  touch  of  humour  that  was 
almost  cynical,  but  she  felt  beneath  his  words  and  manner  a 
solemnity  and  a  thankfulness  that  attracted  and  moved  her. 

"  Those  terrible  dunes !  "  she  said. 

And,  turning,  she  looked  out  over  them. 

There  was  no  sunset,  but  the  deepening  of  the  grey  into  a 
dimness  that  seemed  to  have  blackness  behind  it,  the  more 
ghastly  hue  of  the  white  plains  of  saltpetre,  and  the  fading  of 
the  mirage  sea,  whose  islands  now  looked  no  longer  red,  but  dull 
brown  specks  in  a  pale  mist,  hinted  at  the  rapid  falling  of  night. 

"  My  husband  is  out  in  them,"  she  added. 

"Your  husband,  Madame!" 

He  looked  at  her  rather  narrowly,  shifted  from  one  leg  to  the 
other  as  if  tryng  his  strength,  then  added: 

"  Not  far,  though,  I  suppose.  For  I  see  you  have  a  camp 
here." 

"  He  has  only  gone  after  gazelle." 

As  she  said  the  last  word  she  saw  one  of  the  soldiers,  a  mere 
boy,  lick  his  lips  and  give  a  sort  of  tragic  wink  at  his  companions. 
A  sudden  thought  struck  her. 

"  Don't  think  me  impertinent,  Monsieur,  but — what  ajbout 
provisions  in  your  tower  ?  " 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  Madame,  we  shall  do  well  enough.  Here, 
open  the  door,  Marelle !  " 

And  he  gave  the  key  to  a  soldier,  who  wearily  dismounted 
and  thrust  it  into  the  door  of  the  tower. 

"  But  after  three  days  in  the  dunes !  Your  provisions  must 
be  exhausted  unless  you've  been  able  to  replenish  them." 

"  You  are  too  good,  Madame.  We  shall  manage  a  cous- 
cous." 

"And  wine?     Have  you  any  wine  ?" 

She  glanced  again  at  the  exhausted  soldiers  covered  with  sand 
and  saw  that  their  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  and  were  shining 
eagerly.  All  the  "  good  fellow  "  in  her  nature  rose  up. 

"  You  must  let  me  send  you  some,"  she  said.  "  We  have 
plenty." 

She  thought  of  some  bottles  of  champagne  they  had  brought 
with  them  and  never  opened. 


324  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  In  the  desert  we  are  all  comrades,"  she  added,  as  if  speak- 
ing to  the  soldiers. 

They  looked  at  her  with  an  open  adoration  which  lit  up  their 
tired  faces. 

"  Madame,"  said  the  officer,  "  you  are  much  too  good ;  but  I 
accept  your  offer  as  frankly  as  you  have  made  it.  A  little  wine 
will  be  a  godsend  to  us  to-night.  Thank  you,  Madame." 

The  soldiers  looked  as  if  they  were  going  to  cheer. 

"  I'll  go  to  the  camp " 

"  Cannot  one  of  the  men  go  for  you,  Madame?  You  were 
sitting  here.  Pray,  do  not  let  us  disturb  you." 

"  But  night  is  falling  and  I  shall  have  to  go  back  in  a  moment." 

While  they  had  been  speaking  the  darkness  had  rapidly 
increased.  She  looked  towards  the  distant  dunes  and  no  longer 
saw  them.  At  once  her  mind  went  to  Androvsky.  Why  had  he 
not  returned?  She  thought  of  the  signal.  From  the  camp, 
behind  their  sleeping-tent,  rose  the  flames  of  a  newly-made  fire. 

"  If  one  of  your  men  can  go  and  tell  Batouch — Batouch — to 
come  to  me  here  I  shall  be  grateful,"  she  answered.  "  And  I 
want  him  to  bring  me  a  big  brand  from  the  fire  over  there." 

She  saw  wonder  dawning  in  the  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  and 
smiled. 

"  I  want  to  signal  to  my  husband,"  she  said,  "  and  this  is  the 
highest  point.  He  will  see  it  best  if  I  stand  here." 

"  Go,  Marelle,  ask  for  Batouch,  and  be  sure  you  bring  the 
brand  from  the  fire." 

The  man  saluted  and  rode  off  with  alacrity.  The  thought  of 
wine  had  infused  a  gaiety  into  him  and  his  companions. 

"  Now,  Monsieur,  don't  stand  on  ceremony,"  Domini  said  to 
the  officer.  "  Go  in  and  make  your  toilet.  You  are  longing  to, 
I  know." 

"  I  am  longing  to  look  a  little  more  decent — now,  Madame," 
he  said  gallantly,  and  gazing  at  her  with  a  sparkle  of  admiration 
in  his  inflamed  eyes.  "  You  will  let  me  return  in  a  moment  to 
escort  you  to  the  camp." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  Will  you  permit  me — my  name  is  De  Trevignac." 

"  And  mine  is  Madame  Androvsky." 

"Russian!"  the  officer  said.  "The  alliance  in  the  desert! 
Vive  la  Russie!" 

She  laughed. 

"  That  is  for  my  husband,  for  I  am  English." 

"  Vive  1'Angleterre!  "  he  said. 


THE  JOURNEY  325 

The  two  soldiers  echoed  his  words  impulsively,  lifting  up  in 
the  gathering  darkness  hoarse  voices. 

"Vivel'Angleterre!" 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,"  she  said.  "  Now,  Monsieur,  please 
don't  let  me  keep  you." 

"  I  shall  be  back  directly,"  the  officer  replied. 

And  he  turned  and  went  into  the  tower,  while  the  soldiers 
rode  round  to  the  court,  tugging  at  the  cords  of  the  led  mules. 

Domini  waited  for  the  return  of  Marelle.  Her  mood  had 
changed.  A  glow  of  cordial  humanity  chased  away  her  melan- 
choly. The  hostess  that  lurks  in  every  woman — that  housewife- 
hostess  sense  which  goes  hand-in-hand  with  the  mother  sense — 
was  alive  in  her.  She  was  keenly  anxious  to  play  the  good  fairy 
simply,  unostentatiously,  to  these  exhausted  men  who  had  come 
to  Mogar  out  of  the  jaws  of  Death,  to  see  their  weary  faces  shine 
under  the  influence  of  repose  and  good  cheer.  But  the  tower 
looked  desolate.  The  camp  was  gayer,  cosier.  Suddenly  she 
resolved  to  invite  them  all  to  dine  in  the  camp  that  night. 

Marelle  returned  with  Batouch.  She  saw  them  from  a 
distance  coming  through  the  darkness  with  blazing  torches  in 
their  hands.  When  they  came  to  her  she  said : 

"  Batouch,  I  want  you  to  order  dinner  in  camp  for  the 
soldiers." 

A  broad  and  radiant  smile  irradiated  the  blunt  Breton  features 
of  Marelle. 

"  And  Monsieur  the  officer  will  dine  with  me  and  Monsieur. 
Give  us  all  you  can.  Perhaps  there  will  be  some  gazelle." 

She  saw  him  opening  his  lips  to  say  that  the  dinner  would  be 
poor  and  stopped  him. 

"  You  are  to  open  some  of  the  champagne — the  Pommery. 
We  will  drink  to  all  safe  returns.  Now,  give  me  the  brand  and 
go  and  tell  the  cook." 

As  he  took  his  torch  and  disappeared  into  the  darkness  De 
Trevignac  came  out  from  the  tower.  He  still  looked  exhausted 
and  walked  with  some  difficulty,  but  he  had  washed  the  sand 
from  his  face  with  water  from  the  artesian  well  behind  the 
tower,  changed  his  uniform,  brushed  the  sand  from  his  yellow 
hair,  and  put  on  a  smart  gold-laced  cap  instead  of  his  sun-helmet. 
The  spectacles  were  gone  from  his  eyes,  and  between  his  lips  was 
a  large  Havana — his  last,  kept  by  him  among  the  dunes  as  a 
possible  solace  in  the  dreadful  hour  of  death. 

"  Monsieur  de  Trevignac,  I  want  you  to  dine  with  us  in  camp 
to-night — only  to  dine.  We  won't  keep  you  from  your  bed  one 


328  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

/ 

"  Men  who  have  escaped  from  a  horrible  death  in  the 
dunes." 

"  Arabs  ?" 

"  French." 

Quickly  she  told  him  her  story.  He  listened  in  silence.  When 
she  had  finished  he  said  nothing.  But  she  saw  him  look  at  the 
dining-table  laid  for  three  and  his  expression  was  dark  and 
gloomy. 

"  Boris,  you  don't  mind !  "  she  said  in  surprise.  "  Surely 
you  would  not  refuse  hospitality  to  these  poor  fellows !  " 

She  put  her  hand  through  his  arm  and  pressed  it. 

"  Have  I  done  wrong?     But  I  know  I  haven't!  " 

"  Wrong !     How  could  you  do  that  ?  " 

He  seemed  to  make  an  effort,  to  conquer  something  within 
him. 

"  It's  I  who  am  wrong,  Domini.  The  truth  is,  I  can't  bear 
our  happiness  to  be  intruded  upon  even  for  a  night.  I  want  to 
be  alone  with  you.  This  life  of  ours  in  the  desert  has  made 
me  desperately  selfish.  I  want  to  be  alone,  quite  alone,  with 
you." 

"It's  that!     How  glad  I  am!" 

She  laid  her  cheek  against  his  arm. 
1  Then,"  he  said,  "  that  other  signal?  " 

"  Monsieur  de  Trevignac  gave  it." 

Androvsky  took  his  arm  from  hers  abruptly. 

"  Monsieur  de  Trevignac! "  he  said.  "  Monsieur  de 
Trevignac?  " 

He  stood  as  if  in  deep  and  anxious  thought. 

"  Yes,  the  officer.     That's  his  name.     What  is  it,  Boris?  " 

"  Nothing." 

There  was  a  sound  of  voices  approaching  the  camp  in  the 
darkness.  They  were  speaking  French. 

"  I  must,"  said  Androvsky,  "  I  must " 

He  made  an  uncertain  movement,  as  if  to  go  towards  the 
dunes,  checked  it,  and  went  hurriedly  into  the  dressing-tent.  As 
he  disappeared  De  Trevignac  came  into  the  camp  with  his  men. 
Batouch  conducted  the  latter  with  all  ceremony  towards  the  fire 
which  burned  before  the  tents  of  the  attendants,  and,  for  the 
moment,  Domini  was  left  alone  with  De  Trevignac. 

"  My  husband  is  coming  directly,"  she  said.  "  He  was  late  in 
returning,  but  he  brought  gazelle.  Now  you  must  sit  down  at 
once." 

She  led  the  way  to  the  dining-tent.     De  Trevignac  glanced 


THE   JOURNEY  329 

at  the  table  laid  for  three  with  an  eager  anticipation  which  he 
was  far  too  natural  to  try  to  conceal. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  "  if  I  disgrace  myself  to-night,  if  I  eat 
like  an  ogre  in  a  fairy  tale,  will  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  forgive  you  if  you  don't." 

She  spoke  gaily,  made  him  sit  down  in  a  folding-chair,  and 
insisted  on  putting  a  soft  cushion  at  his  back.  Her  manner  was 
cheerful,  almost  eagerly  kind  and  full  of  a  camaraderie  rare  in  a 
woman,  yet  he  noticed  a  change  in  her  since  they  stood  together 
waving  the  brands  by  the  tower.  And  he  said  to  himself: 

"  The  husband — perhaps  he's  not  so  pleased  at  my  appear- 
ance. I  wonder  how  long  they've  been  married  ?  " 

And  he  felt  his  curiosity  to  see  "  Monsieur  Androvsky " 
deepen. 

While  they  waited  for  him  Domini  made  De  Trevignac  tell 
her  the  story  of  his  terrible  adventure  in  the  dunes.  He  did  so 
simply,  like  a  soldier,  without  exaggeration.  When  he  had 
finished  she  said : 

"  You  thought  death  was  certain  then?  " 

"  Quite  certain,   Madame." 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"  To  have  faced  a  death  like  that  in  utter  desolation,  utter 
loneliness,  must  make  life  seem  very  different  afterwards." 

"  Yes,  Madame.     But  I  did  not  feel  utterly  alone." 

"Your  men!" 

"  No,  Madame." 

After  a  pause  he  added,  simply: 

"  My  mother  is  a  devout  Catholic,  Madame.  I  am  her  only 
child,  and — she  taught  me  long  ago  that  in  any  peril  one  is  never 
quite  alone." 

Domini's  heart  warmed  to  him.  She  loved  this  trust  in  God 
so  frankly  shown  by  a  soldier,  member  of  an  African  regiment, 
in  this  wild  land.  She  loved  this  brave  reliance  on  the  unseen  in 
the  midst  of  the  terror  of  the  seen.  Before  they  spoke  again 
Androvsky  crossed  the  dark  space  between  the  tents  and  came 
slowly  into  the  circle  of  the  lamplight. 

De  Trevignac  got  up  from  his  chair,  and  Domini  introduced 
the  two  men.  As  they  bowed  each  shot  a  swift  glance  at  the 
other.  Then  Androvsky  looked  down,  and  two  vertical  lines 
appeared  on  his  high  forehead  above  his  eyebrows.  They  gave 
to  his  face  a  sudden  look  of  acute  distress.  De  Trevignac 
thanked  him  for  his  proffered  hospitality  with  the  ease  of  a  man 
of  the  world,  assuming  that  the  kind  invitation  to  him  and  to  his 


330  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

men  came  from  the  husband  as  well  as  from  the  wife.  When  he 
had  finished  speaking,  Androvsky,  without  looking  up,  said,  in  a 
voice  that  sounded  to  Domini  new,  as  if  he  had  deliberately 
assumed  it: 

"  I  am  glad,  Monsieur.  We  found  gazejle,  and  so  I  hope — I 
hope  you  will  have  a  fairly  good  dinner." 

The  words  could  scarcely  have  been  more  ordinary,  but  the 
way  in  which  they  were  uttered  was  so  strange,  sounded  indeed 
so  forced,  and  so  unnatural,  that  both  De  Trevignac  and  Domini 
looked  at  the  speaker  in  surprise.  There  was  a  pause.  Then 
Batouch  and  Ouardi  came  in  with  the  soup. 

"Come!"  Domini  said.  "Let  us  begin.  Monsieur  de 
Trevignac,  will  you  sit  here  on  my  right?  " 

They  sat  down.  The  two  men  were  opposite  to  each  other  at 
the  ends  of  the  small  table,  with  a  lamp  between  them.  Domini 
faced  the  tent  door,  and  could  see  in  the  distance  the  tents 
of  the  attendants  lit  up  by  the  blaze  of  the  fire,  and  the  forms  of 
the  French  soldiers  sitting  at  their  table  close  to  it,  with  the 
Arabs  clustering  round  them.  Sounds  of  loud  conversation  and 
occasional  roars  of  laughter,  that  was  almost  childish  in  its  frank 
lack  of  all  restraint,  told  her  that  one  feast  was  a  success.  She 
looked  at  her  companions  and  made  a  sudden  resolve — almost 
fierce — that  the  other,  over  which  she  was  presiding,  should  be  a 
success,  too.  But  why  was  Androvsky  so  strange  with  other 
men?  Why  did  he  seem  to  become  almost  a  different, human 
being  directly  he  was  brought  into  any  close  contact  with  his 
kind?  Was  it  shyness?  Had  he  a  profound  hatred  of  all 
society?  She  remembered  Count  Anteoni's  luncheon  and  the 
distress  Androvsky  had  caused  her  by  his  cold  embarrassment, 
his  unwillingness  to  join  in  conversation  on  that  occasion.  But 
then  he  was  only  her  friend.  Now  he  was  her  husband.  She 
longed  for  him  to  show  himself  at  his  best.  That  he  was  not  a 
man  of  the  world  she  knew.  Had  he  not  told  her  of  his  simple 
upbringing  in  El  Kreir,a  remote  village  of  Tunisia,  by  a  mother 
who  had  been  left  in  poverty  after  the  death  of  his  father,  a 
Russian  who  had  come  to  Africa  to  make  a  fortune  by  vine- 
growing,  and  who  had  had  his  hopes  blasted  by  three  years  of 
drought  and  by  the  visitation  of  the  dreaded  phylloxera?  Had  he 
not  told  her  of  his  own  hard  work  on  the  rich  uplands  among  the 
Spanish  workmen,  of  how  he  had  toiled  early  and  late  in  all 
kinds  of  weather,  not  for  himself,  but  for  a  company  that  drew  a 
fortune  from  the  land  and  gave  him  a  bare  livelihood  ?  Till  she 
met  him  he  had  never  travelled — he  had  never  seen  almost  any- 


THE  JOURNEY  331 

thing  of  life.  A  legacy  from  a  relative  had  at  last  enabled  him 
to  have  some  freedom  and  to  gratify  a  man's  natural  taste  for 
change.  And,  strangely,  perhaps,  he  had  come  first  to  the  desert. 
She  could  not — she  did  not — expect  him  to  show  the  sort  of  easy 
cultivation  that  a  man  acquires  only  by  long  contact  with  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men  and  women.  But  she  knew  that  he 
was  not  only  full  of  fire  and  feeling — a  man  with  a  great  tem- 
perament, but  also  that  he  was  a  man  who  had  found  time  to 
study,  whose  mind  was  not  empty.  He  was  a  man  who  had 
thought  profoundly.  She  knew  this,  although  even  with  her, 
even  in  the  great  intimacy  that  is  born  of  a  great  mutual  pas- 
sion, she  knew  him  for  a  man  of  naturally  deep  reserve,  who 
could  not  perhaps  speak  all  his  thoughts  to  anyone,  even  to  the 
woman  he  loved.  And  knowing  this,  she  felt  a  fighting  temper 
rise  up  in  her.  She  resolved  to  use  her  will  upon  this  man  who 
loved  her,  to  force  him  to  show  his  best  side  to  the  guest  who 
had  come  to  them  out  of  the  terror  of  the  dunes.  She  would 
be  obstinate  for  him. 

Her  lips  went  down  a  little  at  the  corners.  De  Trevignac 
glanced  at  her  above  his  soup-plate,  and  then  at  Androvsky.  He 
was  a  man  who  had  seen  much  of  society,  and  who  divined  at 
once  the  gulf  that  must  have  separated  the  kind  of  life  led 
in  the  past  by  his  hostess  from  the  kind  of  life  led  by  his 
host.  Such  gulfs,  he  knew,  are  bridged  with  difficulty.  In  this 
case  a  great  love  must  have  been  the  bridge.  His  interest  in 
these  two  people,  encountered  by  him  in  the  desolation  of  the 
wastes,  and  when  all  his  emotions  had  been  roused  by  the  near- 
ness of  peril,  would  have  been  deep  in  any  case.  But  there  was 
something  that  made  it  extraordinary,  something  connected  with 
Androvsky.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  seen,  perhaps  known 
Androvsky  at  some  time  in  his  life.  Yet  Androvsky's  face  was 
not  familiar  to  him.  He  could  not  yet  tell  from  what  he  drew 
this  impression,  but  it  was  strong.  He  searched  his  memory. 

Just  at  first  fatigue  was  heavy  upon  him,  but  the  hot  soup,  the 
first  glass  of  wine  revived  him.  When  Domini,  full  of  her 
secret  obstinacy,  began  to  talk  gaily  he  was  soon  able  easily  to 
take  his  part,  and  to  join  her  in  her  effort  to  include  Androvsky 
in  the  conversation.  The  cheerful  noise  of  the  camp  came  to 
them  from  without. 

"  I'm  afraid  my  men  are  lifting  up  their  voices  rather  loudly," 
said  De  Trevignac. 

"  We  like  it,"  said  Domini.     "  Don't  we,  Boris?  " 

There  was  a  long  peal  of  laughter  from  the  distance.     As  it 


332  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

died  away  Batouch's  peculiar  guttural  chuckle,  which  had  some- 
thing negroid  in  it,  was  audible,  prolonging  itself  in  a  loneliness 
that  spoke  his  pertinacious  sense  of  humour. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Androvsky,  still  in  the  same  strained  and 
unnatural  voice  which  had  surprised  Domini  when  she  intro- 
duced the  two  men.  "  We  are  accustomed  to  gaiety  round  the 
camp  fire." 

"You  are  making  a  long  stay  in  the  desert,  Monsieur?" 
asked  De  Trevignac. 

"  I  hope  so,  Monsieur.  It  depends  on  my — it  depends  on 
Madame  Androvsky." 

"  Why  didn't  he  say  *  my  wife  '  ?  "  thought  De  Trevignac. 
And  again  he  searched  his  memory.  Had  he  ever  met  this  man  ? 
If  so,  where? 

"  I  should  like  to  stay  in  the  desert  for  ever,"  Domini  said 
quickly,  with  a  long  look  at  her  husband. 

"  I  should  not,  Madame,"  De  Trevignac  said. 

"  I  understand.     The  desert  has  shown  you  its  terrors." 

"  Indeed  it  has." 

"  But  to  us  it  has  only  shown  its  enchantment.  Hasn't  it?  " 
She  spoke  to  Androvsky.  After  a  pause  he  replied : 

"  Yes." 

The  word,  when  it  came,  sounded  like  a  lie. 

For  the  first  time  since  her  marriage  Domini  felt  a  cold,  like 
a  cold  of  ice  about  her  heart.  Was  it  possible  that  Androvsky 
had  not  shared  her  joy  in  the  desert?  Had  she  been  alone  in 
her  happiness?  For  a  moment  she  sat  like  one  stunned  by  a 
blow.  Then  knowledge,  reason,  spoke  in  her.  She  knew  of 
Androvsky's  happiness  with  her,  knew  it  absolutely.  There  are 
some  things  in  which  a  woman  cannot  be  deceived.  When 
Androvsky  was  with  her  he  wanted  no  other  human  being. 
Nothing  could  take  that  certainty  from  her. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  recovered,  "  there  are  places  in  the 
desert  in  which  melancholy  seems  to  brood,  in  which  one  has  a 
sense  of  the  terrors  of  the  wastes.  Mogar,  I  think,  is  one  of 
them,  perhaps  the  only  one  we  have  been  in  yet.  This  evening, 
when  I  was  sitting  under  the  tower,  even  I  " — and  as  she  said 
"  even  I  "  she  smiled  happily  at  Androvsky — "  knew  some  fore- 
bodings." 

"Forebodings?"  Androvsky  said  quickly.  "Why  should 
you ?  "  He  broke  off. 

"  Not  of  coming  misfortune,  I  hope,  Madame  ?  "  said  De 
Trevignac  in  a  voice  that  was  now  irresistibly  cheerful. 


THE  JOURNEY 

He  was  helping  himself  to  some  gazelle,  which  sent  forth  an 
appetising  odour,  and  Ouardi  was  proudly  pouring  out  for  him 
the  first  glass  of  blithely  winking  champagne. 

"  I  hardly  know,  but  everything  looked  sad  and  strange ;  I 
began  to  think  about  the  uncertainties  of  life." 

Domini  and  De  Trevignac  were  sipping  their  champagne. 
Ouardi  came  behind  Androvsky  to  fill  his  glass. 

"  Non!  non!  "  he  said,  putting  his  hand  over  it  and  shaking 
his  head. 

De  Trevignac  started. 

Ouardi  looked  at  Domini  and  made  a  distressed  grimace, 
pointing  with  a  brown  finger  at  the  glass. 

"  Oh,  Boris!  you  must  drink  champagne  to-night!  "  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"  I  would  rather  not,"  he  answered.  "  I  am  not  accustomed 
to  it." 

"  But  to  drink  our  guest's  health  after  his  escape  from 
death!" 

Androvsky  took  his  hand  from  the  glass  and  Ouardi  filled  it 
with  wine. 

Then  Domini  raised  her  glass  and  drank  to  De  Trevignac. 
Androvsky  followed  her  example,  but  without  geniality,  and 
when  he  put  his  lips  to  the  wine  he  scarcely  tasted  it.  Then 
he  put  the  glass  down  and  told  Ouardi  to  give  him  red  wine.' 
And  during  the  rest  of  the  evening  he  drank  no  more  cham-! 
pagne.  He  also  ate  very  little,  much  less  than  usual,  for  in* 
the  desert  they  both  had  the  appetites  of  hunters. 

After  thanking  them  cordially  for  drinking  his  health,  De 
Trevignac  said: 

"  I  was  nearly  experiencing  the  certainty  of  death.  But  was 
it  Mogar  that  turned  you  to  such  thoughts,  Madame?" 

"  I  think  so.  There  is  something  sad,  even  portentous 
about  it." 

She  looked  towards  the  tent  door,  imagining  the  immense 
desolation  that  was  hidden  in  the  darkness  outside,  the  white 
plains,  the  mirage  sea,  the  sand  dunes  like  monsters,  the 
bleached  bones  of  the  dead  camels  with  the  eagles  hovering 
above  them. 

"  Don't  you  think  so,  Boris?  Don't  you  think  it  looks  like 
a  place  in  which — like  a  tragic  place,  a  place  in  which  tragedies 
ought  to  occur?  " 

"  It  is  not  places  that  make  tragedies,"  he  said,  "  or  at  least 
they  make  tragedies  far  more  seldom  than  the  people  in  them." 


334  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

He  stopped,  seemed  to  make  an  effort  to  throw  off  his  taci- 
turnity, and  suddenly  to  be  able  to  throw  it  off,  at  least  par- 
tially. For  he  continued  speaking  with  greater  naturalness 
and  ease,  even  with  a  certain  dominating  force. 

"  If  people  would  use  their  wills  they  need  not  be  influenced 
by  place,  they  need  not  be  governed  by  a  thousand  things,  by 
memories,  by  fears,  by  fancies — yes,  even  by  fancies  that  are  the 
merest  shadows,  but  out  of  which  they  make  phantoms.  Half 
the  terrors  and  miseries  of  life  lie  only  in  the  minds  of  men. 
They  even  cause  the  very  tragedies  they  would  avoid  by  expect- 
ing them." 

He  said  the  last  words  with  a  sort  of  strong  contempt — then, 
inore  quietly,  he  added: 

"  You,  Domini,  why  should  you  feel  the  uncertainty  of  life, 
especially  at  Mogar?  You  need  not.  You  can  choose  not  to. 
Life  is  the  same  in  its  chances  here  as  everywhere?  " 

"  But  you,"  she  answered — "  did  you  not  feel  a  tragic 
influence  when  we  arrived  here?  Do  you  remember  how  you 
looked  at  the  tower?  " 

"  The  tower!  "  he  said,  with  a  quick  glance  at  De  Trevig- 
nac.  "  I — why  should  I  look  at  the  tower?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  but  you  did,  almost  as  if  you  were  afraid 
of  it." 

"  My  tower!  "  said  De  Trevignac. 

Another  roar  of  laughter  reached  them  from  the  camp  fire. 
It  made  Domini  smile  in  sympathy,  but  De  Trevignac  and 
Androvsky  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment,  the  one  with  a 
sort  of  earnest  inquiry,  the  other  with  hostility,  or  what  seemed 
hostility,  across  the  circle  of  lamplight  that  lay  between  them. 

"  A  tower  rising  in  the  desert  emphasises  the  desolation.  I 
suppose  that  was  it,"  Androvsky  said,  as  the  laugh  died  down 
into  Batouch's  throaty  chuckle.  "It  suggests  lonely  people 
watching." 

"  For  something  that  never  comes,  or  something  terrible  that 
comes,"  De  Trevignac  said. 

As  he  spoke  the  last  words  Androvsky  moved  uneasily  in  his 
chair,  and  looked  out  towards  the  camp,  as  if  he  longed  to  get 
up  and  go  into  the  open  air,  as  if  the  tent  roof  above  his  head 
oppressed  him. 

De  Trevignac  turned  to  Domini. 

"  In  this  case,  Madame,  you  were  the  lonely  watcher,  and  I 
was  the  something  terrible  that  came." 

She  laughed.    .While  she  laughed  De  Trevignac  noticed  that 


THE   JOURNEY  335 

Androvsky  looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  sad  intentness,  not  re- 
proachful or  wondering,  as  an  older  person  might  look  at  a 
child  playing  at  the  edge  of  some  great  gulf  into  which  a  false 
step  would  precipitate  it.  He  strove  to  interpret  this  strange 
look,  so  obviously  born  in  the  face  of  his  host  in  connection 
with  himself.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  must  have  met  An- 
drovsky, and  that  Androvsky  knew  it,  knew — what  he  did  not 
yet  know — where  it  was  and  when.  It  seemed  to  him,  too,  that 
Androvsky  thought  of  him  as  the  "  something  terrible  "  that 
had  come  to  this  woman  who  sat  between  them  out  of  the 
desert. 

But  how  could  it  be? 

A  profound  curiosity  was  roused  in  him  and  he  mentally 
cursed  his  treacherous  memory — if  it  were  treacherous.  For 
possibly  he  might  be  mistaken.  He  had  perhaps  never  met  his 
host  before,  and  this  strange  manner  of  his  might  be  due  to  some 
inexplicable  cause,  or  perhaps  to  some  cause  explicable  and  even 
commonplace.  This  Monsieur  Androvsky  might  be  a  very 
jealous  man,  who  had  taken  this  woman  away  into  the  desert 
to  monopolise  her,  and  who  resented  even  the  chance  intrusion 
of  a  stranger.  De  Trevignac  knew  life  and  the  strange  pas- 
sions of  men,  knew  that  there  are  Europeans  with  the  Arab 
temperament,  who  secretly  long  that  their  women  should  wear 
the  veil  and  live  secluded  in  the  harem.  Androvsky  might  be 
one  of  these. 

When  she  had  laughed  Domini  said: 

"  On  the  contrary,  Monsieur,  you  have  turned  my  thoughts 
into  a  happier  current  by  your  coming." 

"  How  so?" 

"  You  made  me  think  of  what  are  called  the  little  things 
of  life  that  are  more  to  us  women  than  to  you  men,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  Ah,"  he  said.  "  This  food,  this  wine,  this  chair  with  a 
cushion,  this  gay  light — Madame,  they  are  not  little  things  I 
have  to  be  grateful  for.  When  I  think  of  the  dunes  they  seem 
to  me — they  seem " 

Suddenly  he  stopped.  His  gay  voice  was  choked.  She  saw 
that  there  were  tears  in  his  blue  eyes,  which  were  fixed  on  her 
with  an  expression  of  ardent  gratitude.  He  cleared  his  throat. 

"  Monsieur,"  he  said  to  Androvsky,  "  you  will  not  think  me 
presuming  on  an  acquaintance  formed  in  the  desert  if  I  say  that 
till  the  end  of  my  life  I — and  my  men — can  only  think  of 
Madame  as  of  the  good  Goddess  of  the  desolate  Sahara!  " 


336  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

He  did  not  know  how  Androvsky  would  take  this  remark,  he 
did  not  care.  For  the  moment  in  his  impulsive  nature  there  was 
room  only  for  admiration  of  the  woman  and  gratitude  for  her 
frank  kindness.  Androvsky  said: 

"  Thank  you,  Monsieur." 

He  spoke  with  an  intensity,  even  a  fervour,  that  were  start- 
ling. For  the  first  time  since  they  had  been  together  his  voice 
was  absolutely  natural,  his  manner  was  absolutely  unconstrained, 
he  showed  himself  as  he  was,  a  man  on  fire  with  love  for  the 
woman  who  had  given  herself  to  him,  and  who  received  a  warm 
word  of  praise  of  her  as  a  gift  made  to  himself.  De  Trevignac 
no  longer  wondered  that  Domini  was  his  wife.  Those  three 
words,  and  the  way  they  were  spoken,  gave  him  the  man  and 
what  he  might  be  in  a  woman's  life.  Domini  looked  at  her 
husband  silently.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  her  heart  were  flooded 
with  light,  as  if  desolate  Mogar  were  the  Garden  of  Eden  before 
the  angel  came.  When  they  spoke  again  it  was  on  some 
indifferent  topic.  But  from  that  moment  the  meal  went  more 
merrily.  Androvsky  seemed  to  lose  his  strange  uneasiness.  De 
Trevignac  met  him  more  than  half-way.  Something  of  the 
gaiety  round  the  camp  fire  had  entered  into  the  tent.  A  chain 
of  sympathy  had  been  forged  between  these  three  people.  Possi- 
bly a  touch  might  break  it,  but  for  the  moment  it  seemed 
strong. 

At  the  end  of  the  dinner  Domini  got  up. 

"  We  have  no  formalities  in  the  desert,"  she  said.  "  But  I'm 
going  to  leave  you  together  for  a  moment.  Give  Monsieur  de 
Trevignac  a  cigar,  Boris.  Coffee  is  coming  directly." 

She  went  out  towards  the  camp  fire.  She  wanted  to  leave  the 
men  together  to  seal  their  good  fellowship.  Her  husband's 
change  from  taciturnity  to  cordiality  had  enchanted  her. 
Happiness  was  dancing  within  her.  She  felt  gay  as  a  child. 
Between  the  fire  and  the  tent  she  met  Ouardi  carrying  a  tray. 
On  it  were  a  coffee-pot,  cups,  little  glasses  and  a  tall  bottle  of  a 
peculiar  shape  with  a  very  thin  neck  and  bulging  sides. 

"  What's  that,  Ouardi  ?  "  she  asked,  touching  it  with  her 
finger. 

"  That  is  an  African  liqueur,  Madame,  that  you  have  never 
tasted.  Batouch  told  me  to  bring  it  in  honour  of  Monsieur  the 
officer.  They  call  it " 

"Another  surprise  of  Batouch's! "  she  interrupted  gaily. 
"  Take  it  in !  Monsieur  the  officer  will  think  we  have  quite  a 
xrellar  in  the  desert." 


THE  JOURNEY  337 

He  went  on,  and  she  stood  for  a  few  minutes  looking  at  the 
blaze  of  the  fire,  and  at  the  faces  lit  up  by  it,  French  and  Arab. 
The  happy  soldiers  were  singing  a  French  song  with  a  chorus 
for  the  delectation  of  the  Arabs,  who  swayed  to  and  fro,  wagging 
their  heads  and  smiling  in  an  effort  to  show  appreciation  of  the 
barbarous  music  of  the  Roumis.  Dreary,  terrible  Mogar  and  its 
influences  were  being  defied  by  the  wanderers  halting  in  it.  She 
thought  of  Androvsky 's  words  about  the  human  will  overcoming 
the  influence  of  place,  and  a  sudden  desire  came  to  her  to  go  as 
far  as  the  tower  where  she  had  felt  sad  and  apprehensive,  to 
stand  in  its  shadow  for  an  instant  and  to  revel  in  her  happi- 
ness. 

She  yielded  to  the  impulse,  walked  to  the  tower,  and  stood 
there  facing  the  darkness  which  hid  the  dunes,  the  white  plains, 
the  phantom  sea,  seeing  them  in  her  mind,  and  radiantly  defying 
them.  Then  she  began  to  return  to  the  camp,  walking  lightly, 
as  happy  people  walk.  When  she  had  gone  a  very  short  way 
she  heard  someone  coming  towards  her.  It  was  too  dark  to  see 
who  it  was.  She  could  only  hear  the  steps  among  the  stones. 
They  were  hasty.  They  passed  her  and  stopped  behind  her  at 
the  tower.  She  wondered  who  it  was,  and  supposed  it  must  be 
one  of  the  soldiers  come  to  fetch  something,  or  perhaps  tired  and 
hastening  to  bed. 

As  she  drew  near  to  the  camp  she  saw  the  lamplight  shining 
in  the  tent,  where  doubtless  De  Trevignac  and  Androvsky  were 
smoking  and  talking  in  frank  good  fellowship.  Ijt  was  like  a 
bright  star,  she  thought,  that  gleam  of  light  that  shone  out  of  her 
home,  the  brightest  of  all  the  stars  of  Africa.  She  went  towards 
it.  As  she  drew  near  she  expected  to  hear  the  voices  of  the  two 
men,  but  she  heard  nothing.  Nor  did  she  see  the  blackness  of 
their  forms  in  the  circle  of  the  light.  Perhaps  they  had  gone  out 
to  join  the  soldiers  and  the  Arabs  round  the  fire.  She  hastened 
on,  came  to  the  tent,  entered  it,  and  was  confronted  by  her 
husband,  who  was  standing  back  in  an  angle  formed  by  the 
canvas,  in  the  shadow,  alone.  On  the  floor  near  him  lay  a 
quantity  of  fragments  of  glass. 

"  Boris!  "  she  said.     "  Where  is  Monsieur  de  Trevignac?  " 

"  Gone,"  replied  Androvsky  in  a  loud,  firm  voice. 

She  looked  up  at  him.  His  face  was  grim  and  powerful, 
hard  like  the  face  of  a  fighting  man. 

"Gone  already?     Why?" 

"  He's  tired  out.     He  told  me  to  make  his  excuses  to  you." 


338  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  But " 

She  saw  on  the  table  the  coffee  cups.  Two  of  them  were 
full  of  coffee.  The  third,  hers,  was  clean. 

"  But  he  hasn't  drunk  his  coffee !  "  she  said. 

She  was  astonished  and  showed  it.  She  could  not  understand 
a  man  who  had  displayed  such  warm,  even  touching,  apprecia- 
tion of  her  kindness  leaving  her  without  a  word,  taking  the 
opportunity  of  her  momentary  absence  to  disappear,  to  shirk 
away — for  she  put  it  like  that  to  herself. 

"  No — he  did  not  want  coffee." 

"  But  was  anything  the  matter?  " 

She  looked  down  at  the  broken  glass,  and  saw  stains  upon 
the  ground  among  the  fragments. 

"  What's  this?  "  she  said.     "  Oh,  the  African  liqueur!  " 

Suddenly  Androvsky  put  his  arm  round  her  with  an  iron 
grip,  and  led  her  away  out  of  the  tent.  They  crossed  the  space 
to  the  sleeping-tent  in  silence.  She  felt  governed,  and  as  if  she 
must  yield  to  his  will,  but  she  also  felt  confused,  even  almost 
alarmed  mentally.  The  sleeping-tent  was  dark.  When  they 
reached  it  Androvsky  took  his  arm  from  her,  and  she  heard  him 
searching  for  the  matches.  She  was  in  the  tent  door  and  could 
see  that  there  was  a  light  in  the  tower.  De  Trevignac  must  be 
there  already.  No  doubt  it  was  he  who  had  passed  her  in  the 
night  when  she  was  returning  to  the  camp.  Androvsky  struck  a 
match  and  lit  a  candle.  Then  he  came  to  the  tent  door  and 
saw  her  looking  at  the  light  in  the  tower. 

"  Come  in,  Domini,"  he  said,  taking  her  by  the  hand,  and 
speaking  gently,  but  still  with  a  firmness  that  hinted  at  com- 
mand. 

She  obeyed,  and  he  quickly  let  down  the  flap  of  canvas, 
and  shut  out  the  night. 

"  What  is  it,  Boris  ?  "  she  asked. 

She  was  standing  by  one  of  the  beds. 

"What  has  happened?" 

"Why— happened?" 

"  I  don't  understand.  Why  did  Monsieur  de  Trevignac  go 
away  so  suddenly  ?  " 

"  Domini,  do  you  care  whether  he  is  here  or  gone?  Do  you 
care?"  He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  drew  her  down 
beside  him. 

"  Do  you  want  anyone  to  be  with  us,  to  break  in  upon  our 
lives?  Aren't  we  happier  alone?  '* 


THE  JOURNEY  339 

"Boris!"  she  said,  "you — did  you  let  him  see  that  you 
wanted  him  to  go?  " 

It  occurred  to  her  suddenly  that  Androvsky,  in  his  lack  of 
worldly  knowledge,  might  perhaps  have  shown  their  guest  that 
he  secretly  resented  the  intrusion  of  a  stranger  upon  them  even 
for  one  evening,  and  that  De  Trevignac,  being  a  sensitive  man, 
had  been  hurt  and  had  abruptly  gone  away.  Her  social  sense 
revolted  at  this  idea. 

"  You  didn't  let  him  see  that,  Boris ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"  After  his  escape  from  death !  It  would  have  been  in- 
human." 

"Perhaps  my  love  for  you  might  even  make  me  that,  Domini. 
And  if  it  did — if  you  knew  why  I  was  inhuman — would  you 
blame  me  for  it?  Would  you  hate  me  for  it?" 

There  was  a  strong  excitement  dawning  in  him.  It  recalled 
to  her  the  first  night  in  the  desert  when  they  sat  together  on  the 
ground  and  watched  the  waning  of  the  fire. 

"  Could  you — could  you  hate  me  for  anything,  Domini?  "  he 
said.  "  Tell  me — could  you?  " 

His  face  was  close  to  hers.  She  looked  at  him  with 
her  long,  steady  eyes,  that  had  truth  written  in  their  dark 
fire. 

"  No,"  she  answered.     "  I  could  never  hate  you — now." 

"  Not  if — not  if  I  had  done  you  harm  ?  Not  if  I  had  done 
you  a  wrong?  " 

"  Could  you  ever  do  me  a  wrong  ?  "  she  asked. 

She  sat,  looking  at  him  as  if  in  deep  thought,  for  a  moment. 

"  I  could  almost  as  easily  believe  that  God  could,"  she  said 
at  last  simply. 

"  Then  you — you  have  perfect  trust  in  me?  " 

"  But — have  you  ever  thought  I  had  not?  "  she  asked.  There 
was  wonder  in  her  voice. 

"  But  I  have  given  my  life  to  you,"  she  added  still  with 
wonder.  "  I  am  here  in  the  desert  with  you.  What  more  can 
I  give  ?  What  more  can  I  do  ?  " 

He  put  his  arms  about  her  and  drew  her  head  down  on  his 
shoulder. 

"  Nothing,  nothing.  You  have  given,  you  have  done  every- 
thing— too  much,  too  much.  I  feel  myself  below  you,  I  know 
myself  below  you — far,  far  down." 

"  How  can  you  say  that?  I  couldn't  have  loved  you  if  it 
were  so."  She  spoke  with  complete  conviction, 


340  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  perhaps  women  neve* 
realise  what  their  love  can  do.  It  might — it  might " 

"What,  Boris?" 

"  It  might  do  what  Christ  did — go  down  into  hell  to  preach 
to  the — to  the  spirits  in  prison." 

His  voice  had  dropped  almost  to  a  murmur.  With  one  hand 
on  her  cheek  he  kept  her  face  pressed  down  upon  his  shoulder 
so  that  she  could  not  see  his  face. 

"  It  might  do  that,  Domini." 

"  Boris,"  she  said,  almost  whispering  too,  for  his  words  and 
manner  filled  her  with  a  sort  of  awe,  "  I  want  you  to  tell 
me  something." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Are  you  quite  happy  with  me  here  in  the  desert  ?  If  you 
are  I  want  you  to  tell  me  that  you  are.  Remember — I  shall 
believe  you." 

"  No  other  human  being  could  ever  give  me  the  happiness 
you  give  me." 

"  But " 

He  interrupted  her. 

"  No  other  human  being  ever  has.  Till  I  met  you  I  had  no 
conception  of  the  happiness  there  is  in  the  world  for  man  and 
woman  who  love  each  other." 

"  Then  you  are  happy?  " 

"Don't  I  seem  so?" 

She  did  not  reply.  She  was  searching  her  heart  for  the 
answer — searching  it  with  an  almost  terrible  sincerity.  He 
waited  for  her  answer,  sitting  quite  still.  His  hand  was  always 
against  her  face.  After  what  seemed  to  him  an  eternity  she 
said: 

"Boris!" 

"  Yes." 

"  Why  did  you  say  that  about  a  woman's  love  being  able  even 
to  go  down  into  hell  to  preach  to  the  spirits  in  prison  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer.  His  hand  seemed  to  her  to  lie  more 
heavily  on  her  cheek. 

"  I — I  am  not  sure  that  you  are  quite  happy  with  me,"  she 
said. 

She  spoke  like  one  who  reverenced  truth,  even  though  it  slew 
her.  There  was  a  note  of  agony  in  her  voice. 

"  Hush!  "  he  said.     "  Hush,  Domini!  " 

They  were  both  silent.     Beyond  the  canvas  of  the  tent  that 


THE  JOURNEY  341 

shut  out  from  them  the  camp  they  heard  a  sound  of  music. 
Drums  were  being  beaten.  The  African  pipe  was  wailing. 
Then  the  voice  of  Ali  rose  in  the  song  of  the  "  Freed  Negroes  ": 

"No  one  but  God  and  I 
Knows  what  is  in  my  heart." 

At  that  moment  Domini  felt  that  the  words  were  true- 
horribly  true. 

"  Boris,"  she  said.     "  Do  you  hear?  " 

"  Hush,  Domini." 

"  I  think  there  is  something  in  your  heart  that  sometimes 
makes  you  sad  even  with  me.  I  think  perhaps  I  partly  guess 
what  it  is." 

He  took  his  hand  away  from  her  face,  his  arm  from  her 
shoulder,  but  she  caught  hold  of  him,  and  her  arm  was  strong 
like  a  man's. 

"Boris,  you  are  with  me,  you  are  close  to  me,  but  do  you 
sometimes  feel  far  away  from  God  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer. 

"  I  don't  know ;  I  oughtn't  to  ask,  perhaps.  I  don't  ask — no, 
I  don't.  But,  if  it's  that,  don't  be  too  sad.  It  may  all  come 
right — here  in  the  desert.  For  the  desert  is  the  Garden  of 
Allah.  And,  Boris — put  out  the  light." 

He  extinguished  the  candle  with  his  hand. 

"  You  feel,  perhaps,  that  you  can't  pray  honestly  now,  but 
some  day  you  may  be  able  to.  You  will  be  able  to.  I  know 
it.  Before  I  knew  I  loved  you  I  saw  you — praying  in  the 
desert." 

"  I !  "  he  whispered.     "  You  saw  me  praying  in  the  desert !  " 

It  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  afraid.  She  pressed  him  more 
closely  with  her  arms. 

"  It  was  that  night  in  the  dancing-house.  I  seemed  to  see  a 
crowd  of  people  to  whom  the  desert  had  given  gifts,  and  to  you 
it  had  given  the  gift  of  prayer.  I  saw  you  far  out  in  the  desert 
praying." 

She  heard  his  hard  breathing,  felt  it  against  her  cheek. 

"  If — if  it  is  that,  Boris,  don't  despair.  It  may  come.  Keep 
the  crucifix.  I  am  sure  you  have  it.  And  I  always  pray  for 
you." 

They  sat  for  a  long  while  in  the  dark,  but  they  did  not  speak 
again  that  night. 

Domini  did  not  sleep,  and  very  early  in  the  morning,  just  as 


342  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

dawn  was  beginning,  she  stole  out  of  the  tent,  shutting  down  the 
canvas  flap  behind  her. 

It  was  cold  outside — cold  almost  as  in  a  northern  winter. 
The  wind  of  the  morning,  that  blew  to  her  across  the  wavelike 
dunes  and  the  white  plains,  seemed  impregnated  with  ice.  The 
sky  was  a  pallid  grey.  The  camp  was  sleeping.  What  had  been 
a  fire,  all  red  and  gold  and  leaping  beauty,  was  now  a  circle  of 
ashes,  grey  as  the  sky.  She  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  hill  and 
looked  towards  the  tower. 

As  she  did  so,  from  the  house  behind  it  came  a  string  of  mules, 
picking  their  way  among  the  stones  over  the  hard  earth.  De 
Trevignac  and  his  men  were  already  departing  from  Mogar. 

They  came  towards  her  slowly.  They  had  to  pass  her  to 
reach  the  track  by  which  they  were  going  on  to  the  north  and 
civilisation.  She  stood  to  see  them  pass. 

When  they  were  quite  near  De  Trevignac,  who  was  riding, 
with  his  head  bent  down  on  his  chest,  muffled  in  a  heavy  cloak, 
looked  up  and  saw  her.  She  nodded  to  him.  He  sat  up  and 
saluted.  For  a  moment  she  thought  that  he  was  going  on  with- 
out stopping  to  speak  to  her.  She  saw  that  he  hesitated  what  to 
do.  Then  he  pulled  up  his  mule  and  prepared  to  get  off. 

"  No,  don't,  Monsieur,"  she  said. 

She  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  added. 

He  took  her  hand,  then  signed  to  his  men  to  ride  on.  When 
they  had  passed,  saluting  her,  he  let  her  hand  go.  He  had  not 
spoken  a  word.  His  face,  burned  scarlet  by  the  sun,  had  a  look 
of  exhaustion  on  it,  but  also  another  look — of  horror,  she 
thought,  as  if  in  his  soul  he  was  recoiling  from  her.  His  in- 
flamed blue  eyes  watched  her,  as  if  in  a  search  that  was  intense. 
She  stood  beside  the  mule  in  amazement.  She  could  hardly  be- 
lieve that  this  was  the  man  who  had  thanked  her,  with  tears  in 
his  eyes,  for  her  hospitality  the  night  before.  "  Good-bye,"  he 
said,  speaking  at  last,  coldly.  She  saw  him  glance  at  the  tent 
from  which  she  had  come.  The  horror  in  his  face  surely 
deepened.  "  Good-bye,  Madame,"  he  repeated.  "  Thank  you 
for  your  hospitality."  He  pulled  up  the  rein  to  ride  on.  The 
mule  moved  a  step  or  two.  Then  suddenly  he  checked  it  and 
turned  in  the  saddle.  "  Madame!  "  he  said.  "  Madame!  " 

She  came  up  to  him.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  going  to 
say  something  of  tremendous  importance  to  her.  His  lips, 
blistered  by  the  sun,  opened  to  speak.  But  he  only  looked  again 


THE  JOURNEY  343 

towards  the  tent  in  which  Androvsky  was  still  sleeping,  then  at 
her. 

A  long  moment  passed. 

Then  De  Trevignac,  as  if  moved  by  an  irresistible  impulse, 
leaned  from  the  saddle  and  made  over  Domini  the  sign  of  the 
cross.  His  hand  dropped  down  against  the  mule's  side,  and 
without  another  word,  or  look,  he  rode  away  to  the  north, 
following  his  men. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THAT  same  day,  to  the  surprise  of  Batouch,  they  left  Mogar. 
To  both  Domini  and  Androvsky  it  seemed  a  tragic  place,  a  place 
where  the  desert  showed  them  a  countenance  that  was  menacing. 

They  moved  on  towards  the  south,  wandering  aimlessly 
through  the  warm  regions  of  the  sun.  Then,  as  the  spring  drew 
into  summer,  and  the  heat  became  daily  more  intense,  they 
turned  again  northwards,  and  on  an  evening  in  May  pitched 
their  camp  on  the  outskirts  of  the  Sahara  city  of  Amara. 

This  city,  although  situated  in  the  northern  part  of  the 
desert,  was  called  by  the  Arabs  "  The  belly  of  the  Sahara,"  and 
also  "  The  City  of  Scorpions."  It  lay  in  the  midst  of  a  vast 
region  of  soft  and  shifting  sand  that  suggested  a  white  sea,  in 
which  the  oasis  of  date  palms,  at  the  edge  of  which  the  city 
stood,  was  a  green  island.  From  the  south,  whence  the  wan- 
derers came,  the  desert  sloped  gently  upwards  for  a  long  dis- 
tance, perhaps  half  a  day's  march,  and  many  kilometres  before 
the  city  was  reached,  the  minarets  of  its  mosques  were  visible, 
pointing  to  the  brilliant  blue  sky  that  arched  the  whiteness  of 
the  sands.  Round  about  the  city,  on  every  side,  great  sand-hills 
rose  like  ramparts  erected  by  Nature  to  guard  it  from  the 
assaults  of  enemies.  These  hills  were  black  with  the  tents  of 
desert  tribes,  which,  from  far  off,  looked  like  multitudes  of  flies 
that  had  settled  on  the  sands.  The  palms  of  the  oasis,  which 
stretched  northwards  from  the  city,  could  not  be  seen  from  the 
south  till  the  city  was  reached,  and  in  late  spring  this  region 
was  a  strange  and  barbarous  pageant  of  blue  and  white  and  gold ; 
crude  in  its  intensity,  fierce  in  its  crudity,  almost  terrible  in  its 
blazing  splendour  that  was  like  the  splendour  about  the  portals 
of  the  sun. 

Domini  and  Androvsky  rode  towards  Amara  at  a  foot's  pace, 


344  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

looking  towards  its  distant  towers.  A  quivering  silence  lay 
around  them,  yet  already  they  seemed  to  hear  the  cries  of  the 
voices  of  a  great  multitude,  to  be  aware  of  the  movement  of 
thronging  crowds  of  men.  This  was  the  first  Sahara  city  they 
had  drawn  near  to,  and  their  minds  were  full  of  memories  of  the 
stories  of  Batouch,  told  to  them  by  the  camp  fire  at  night  in  the 
uninhabited  places  which,  till  now,  had  been  their  home :  stories 
of  the  wealthy  date  merchants  who  trafficked  here  and  dwelt  in 
Oriental  palaces,  poor  in  aspect  as  seen  from  the  dark  and  nar- 
row streets,  or  zgags,  in  which  they  were  situated,  but  within 
full  of  the  splendours  of  Eastern  luxury;  of  the  Jew  money- 
lenders who  lived  apart  in  their  own  quarter,  rapacious  as 
wolves,  hoarding  their  gains,  and  practising  the  rites  of  their 
ancient  and — according  to  the  Arabs — detestable  religion;  of 
the  marabouts,  or  sacred  men,  revered  by  the  Mohammedans, 
who  rode  on  white  horses  through  the  public  ways,  followed  by 
adoring  fanatics  who  sought  to  touch  their  garments  and 
amulets,  and  demanded  importunately  miraculous  blessings  at 
their  hands — the  hedgehog's  foot  to  protect  their  women  in  the 
peril  of  childbirth ;  the  scroll,  covered  with  verses  of  the  Koran 
and  enclosed  in  a  sheaf  of  leather,  that  banishes  ill  dreams  at 
night  and  stays  the  uncertain  feet  of  the  sleep-walker;  the 
camel's  skull  that  brings  fruit  to  the  palm  trees;  the  red  coral 
that  stops  the  flow  of  blood  from  a  knife-wound — of  the  dancing- 
girls  glittering  in  an  armour  of  golden  pieces,  their  heads  tied 
with  purple  and  red  and  yellow  handkerchiefs  of  silk,  crowned 
with  great  bars  of  solid  gold  and  tufted  with  ostrich  feathers; 
of  the  dwarfs  and  jugglers  who  by  night  perform  in  the  market- 
place, contending  for  custom  with  the  sorceresses  who  tell  the 
fates  from  shells  gathered  by  mirage  seas;  with  the  snake- 
charmers  who  are  immune  from  the  poison  of  serpents  and  the 
acrobats  who  come  from  far-off  Persia  and  Arabia  to  spread 
their  carpets  in  the  shadow  of  the  Agha's  dwelling  and  delight 
the  eyes  of  negro  and  Kabyle,  of  Soudanese  and  Touareg  with 
their  feats  of  strength;  of  the  haschish  smokers  who,  assembled 
by  night  in  an  underground  house  whose  ceiling  and  walls  were 
black  as  ebony,  gave  themselves  up  to  day-dreams  of  shifting 
glory,  in  which  the  things  of  earth  and  the  joys  and  passions  of 
men  reappeared,  but  transformed  by  the  magic  influence  of  the 
drug,  made  monstrous  or  fairylike,  intensified  or  turned  to 
voluptuous  languors,  through  which  the  Ouled  Nail  floated  like 
a  syren,  promising  ecstasies  unknown  even  in  Baghdad,  where 


THE   JOURNEY  345 

the  pale  Circassian  lifts  her  lustrous  eyes,  in  which  the  palms 
were  heavy  with  dates  of  solid  gold,  and  the  streams  were  glid- 
ing silver. 

Often  they  had  smiled  over  Batouch's  opulent  descriptions  of 
the  marvels  of  Ain-Amara,  which  they  suspected  to  be  very  far 
away  from  the  reality,  and  yet,  nevertheless,  when  they  saw  the 
minarets  soaring  above  the  sands  to  the  brassy  heaven,  it  seemed 
to  them  both  as  if,  perhaps,  they  might  be  true.  The  place 
looked  intensely  barbaric.  The  approach  to  it  was  grandiose. 

Wide  as  the  sands  had  been,  they  seemed  to  widen  out  into  a 
greater  immensity  of  arid  pallor  before  the  city  gates  as  yet  un- 
seen. The  stretch  of  blue  above  looked  vaster  here,  the  horizons 
more  remote,  the  radiance  of  the  sun  more  vivid,  more  inex- 
orable. Nature  surely  expanded  as  if  in  an  effort  to  hold  her 
arm  against  some  tremendous  spectacle  set  in  its  bosom  by  the 
activity  of  men,  who  were  strong  and  ardent  as  the  giants  of 
old,  who  had  powers  and  a  passion  for  employing  them  per- 
sistently not  known  in  any  other  region  of  the  earth.  The 
immensity  of  Mogar  brought  sadness  to  the  mind.  The  im- 
mensity of  Ain-Amara  brought  excitement.  Even  at  this 
distance  from  it,  when  its  minarets  were  still  like  shadowy 
fingers  of  an  unlifted  hand,  Androvsky  and  Domini  were  con- 
scious of  influences  streaming  forth  from  its  battlements  over 
the  sloping  sands  like  a  procession  that  welcomed  them  to  a  new 
phase  of  desert  life. 

"  And  people  talk  of  the  monotony  of  the  Sahara!  "  Domini 
said  speaking  out  of  their  mutual  thought.  "  Everything  is 
here,  Boris;  you've  never  drawn  near  to  London.  Long  before 
you  reach  the  first  suburbs  you  feel  London  like  a  great  influence 
brooding  over  the  fields  and  the  woods.  Here  you  feel  Amara 
in  the  same  way  brooding  over  the  sands.  It's  as  if  the  sands 
were  full  of  voices.  Doesn't  it  excite  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  But " — and  he  turned  in  his  saddle  and 
looked  back — "  I  feel  as  if  the  solitudes  were  safer." 

"  We  can  return  to  them." 

"  Yes." 

"We  are  splendidly  free.  There's  nothing  to  prevent  us 
leaving  Amara  to-morrow." 

"Isn't  there?"  he  answered,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  the  min- 
arets. 

"What  can  there  be?" 

"Who  knows?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  Boris?    Are  you  superstitious?     But 


346  THE   GARDEN    OF  ALLAH 

you  reject  the  influence  of  place.  Don't  you  remember — at 
Mogar?" 

At  the  mention  of  the  name  his  face  clouded  and  she  was 
sorry  she  had  spoken  it.  Since  they  had  left  the  hill  above  the 
mirage  sea  they  had  scarcely  ever  alluded  to  their  night  there. 
They  had  never  once  talked  of  the  dinner  in  camp  with  De 
Trevignac  and  his  men,  or  renewed  their  conversation  in  the  tent 
on  the  subject  of  religion.  But  since  that  day,  since  her  words 
about  Androvsky's  lack  of  perfect  happiness  even  with  her  far 
out  in  the  freedom  of  the  desert,  Domini  had  been  conscious 
that,  despite  their  great  love  for  each  other,  their  mutual  passion 
for  the  solitude  in  which  it  grew  each  day  more  deep  and  more 
engrossing,  wrapping  their  lives  in  fire  and  leading  them  on  to 
the  inner  abodes  of  sacred  understanding,  there  was  at  moments 
a  barrier  between  them. 

At  first  she  had  striven  not  to  recognise  its  existence.  She 
had  striven  to  be  blind.  But  she  was  essentially  a  brave  woman 
and  an  almost  fanatical  lover  of  truth  for  its  own  sake,  think- 
ing that  what  is  called  an  ugly  truth  is  less  ugly  than  the  love- 
liest lie.  To  deny  truth  is  to  play  the  coward.  She  could  not 
long  do  that.  And  so  she  quickly  learned  to  face  this  truth  with 
steady  eyes  and  an  unflinching  heart. 

At  moments  Androvsky  retreated  from  her,  his  mind  became 
remote — more,  his  heart  was  far  from  her,  and,  in  its  distant 
place,  was  suffering.  Of  that  she  was  assured. 

But  she  was  assured,  too,  that  she  stood  to  him  for  perfection 
in  human  companionship.  A  woman's  love  is,  perhaps,  the  only 
true  divining  rod.  Domini  knew  instinctively  where  lay  the 
troubled  waters,  what  troubled  them  in  their  subterranean 
dwelling.  She  was  certain  that  Androvsky  was  at  peace  with 
her  but  not  with  himself.  She  had  said  to  him  in  the  tent  that 
she  thought  he  sometimes  felt  far  away  from  God.  The  con- 
viction grew  in  her  that  even  the  satisfaction  of  his  great  human 
love  was  not  enough  for  his  nature.  He  demanded,  sometimes 
imperiously,  not  only  the  peace  that  can  be  understood  glori- 
ously, but  also  that  other  peace  which  passeth  understanding. 
And  because  he  had  it  not  he  suffered. 

In  the  Garden  of  Allah  he  felt  a  loneliness  even  though  she 
was  with  him,  and  he  could  not  speak  with  her  of  this  loneliness. 
That  was  the  barrier  between  them,  she  thought. 

She  prayed  for  him:  in  the  tent  by  night,  in  the  desert  under 
the  burning  sky  by  day.  When  the  muezzin  cried  from  the 
minaret  of  some  tiny  village  lost  in  the  desolation  of  the  wastes, 


THE  JOURNEY  347 

turning  to  the  north,  south,  east  and  west,  and  the  Mussulmans 
bowed  their  shaven  heads,  facing  towards  Mecca,  she  prayed  to 
the  Catholics'  God,  whom  she  felt  to  be  the  God,  too,  of  all  the 
devout,  of  all  the  religions  of  the  world,  and  to  the  Mother  of 
God,  looking  towards  Africa.  She  prayed  that  this  man  whom 
she  loved,  and  who  she  believed  was  seeking,  might  find.  And 
she  felt  that  there  was  a  strength,  a  passion  in  her  prayers,  which 
could  not  be  rejected.  She  felt  that  some  day  Allah  would  show 
himself  in  his  garden  to  the  wanderer  there.  She  dared  to  feel 
that  because  she  dared  to  believe  in  the  endless  mercy  of  God. 
And  when  that  moment  came  she  felt,  too,  that  their  love — hers 
and  his — for  each  other  would  be  crowned.  Beautiful  and 
intense  as  it  was  it  still  lacked  something.  It  needed  to  be 
encircled  by  the  protecting  love  of  a  God  in  whom  they  both 
believed  in  the  same  way,  and  to  whom  they  both  were  equally 
near.  While  she  felt  close  to  this  love  and  he  far  from  it  they 
were  not  quite  together. 

There  were  moments  in  which  she  was  troubled,  even  sad,  but 
they  passed.  For  she  had  a  great  courage,  a  great  confidence. 
The  hope  that  dwells  like  a  flame  in  the  purity  of  prayer  com- 
forted her. 

"  I  love  the  solitudes,"  he  said.  "  I  love  to  have  you  to 
myself." 

"If  we  lived  always  in  the  greatest  city  of  the  world  it  would 
make  no  difference,"  she  said  quietly.  "  You  know  that, 
Boris." 

He  bent  over  from  his  saddle  and  clasped  her  hand  in  his, 
and  they  rode  thus  up  the  great  slope  of  the  sands,  with  their 
horses  close  together. 

The  minarets  of  the  city  grew  more  distinct.  They  domi- 
nated the  waste  as  the  thought  of  Allah  dominates  the  Mo- 
hammedan world.  Presently,  far  away  on  the  left,  Domini  and 
Androvsky  saw  hills  of  sand,  clearly  defined  like  small  moun- 
tains delicately  shaped.  On  the  summits  of  these  hills  were 
Arab  villages  of  the  hue  of  bronze  gleaming  in  the  sun.  No 
trees  stood  near  them.  But  beyond  them,  much  farther  off,  was 
the  long  green  line  of  the  palms  of  a  large  oasis.  .  Between  them 
and  the  riders  moved  slowly  towards  the  minarets  dark  things 
that  looked  like  serpents  writhing  through  the  sands.  These 
were  caravans  coming  into  the  city  from  long  journeys.  Here 
and  there,  dotted  about  in  the  immensity,  were  solitary  horse- 
men, camels  in  twos  and  threes,  small  troops  of  donkeys.  And 
all  the  things  that  moved  went  towards  the  minarets  as  if 


348  THE    GARDEN    OF   ALLAH 

irresistibly  drawn  onwards  by  some  strong  influence  that  sucked 
them  in  from  the  solitudes  of  the  whirlpool  of  human  life. 

Again  Domini  thought  of  the  approach  to  London,  and  of 
the  dominion  of  great  cities,  those  octopus  monsters  created  by 
men,  whose  tentacles  are  strong  to  seize  and  stronger  still  to 
keep.  She  was  infected  by  Androvsky's  dread  of  a  changed 
life,  and  through  her  excitement,  that  pulsed  with  interest  and 
curiosity,  she  felt  a  faint  thrill  of  something  that  was  like  fear. 

"  Boris,"  she  said,  "  I  feel  as  if  your  thoughts  were  being  con- 
veyed to  me  by  your  touch.  Perhaps  the  solitudes  are  best." 

By  a  simultaneous  impulse  they  pulled  in  their  horses  and 
listened.  Sounds  came  to  them  over  the  sands,  thin  and  remote. 
They  could  not  tell  what  they  were,  but  they  knew  that  they 
heard  something  which  suggested  the  distant  presence  of  life. 

"What  is  it?"  said  Domini. 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  hear  something.  It  travels  to  us  from 
the  minarets." 

They  both  leaned  forward  on  their  horses'  necks,  holding 
each  other's  hand. 

"  I  feel  the  tumult  of  men,"  Androvsky  said  presently. 

"  And  I.  But  it  seems  as  if  no  men  could  have  elected  to 
build  a  city  here." 

"  Here  in  the  '  Belly  of  the  desert/  "  he  said,  quoting  the 
Arabs'  name  for  Amara. 

"  Boris  " — she  spoke  in  a  more  eager  voice,  clasping  his  hand 
strongly — "  you  remember  the  fumoir  in  Count  Anteoni's 
garden.  The  place  where  it  stood  was  the  very  heart  of  the 
garden." 

"  Yes." 

"  We  understood  each  other  there." 

He  pressed  her  hand  without  speaking. 

"  Amara  seems  to  me  the  heart  of  the  Garden  of  Allah. 
Perhaps — perhaps  we  shall " 

She  paused.     Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  face. 

"What,  Domini?"  he  asked. 

He  looked  expectant,  but  anxious,  and  watched  her,  but 
with  eyes  that  seemed  ready  to  look  away  from  her  at  a  word. 

"  Perhaps  we  shall  understand  each  other  even  better  there." 

He  looked  down  at  the  white  sand. 

"  Better!  "  he  repeated.    "  Could  we  do  that?  " 

She  did  not  answer.  The  far-off  villages  gleamed  mys- 
teriously on  their  little  mountains,  like  unreal  things  that  might 
fade  away  as  castles  fade  in  the  fire.  The  sky  above  the  min- 


THE   JOURNEY  349 

arets  was  changing  in  colour  slowly.  Its  blue  was  being 
invaded  by  a  green  that  was  a  sister  colour.  A  curious  light, 
that  seemed  to  rise  from  below  rather  than  to  descend  from 
above,  was  transmuting  the  whiteness  of  the  sands.  A  lemon 
yellow  crept  through  them,  but  they  still  looked  cold  and 
strange,  and  immeasurably  vast.  Domini  fancied  that  the 
silence  of  the  desert  deepened  so  that,  in  it,  they  might  hear 
the  voices  of  Amara  more  distinctly. 

"  You  know,"  she  said,  "  when  one  looks  out  over  the  desert 
from  a  height,  as  we  did  from  the  tower  of  Beni-Mora,  it 
seems  to  call  one.  There's  a  voice  in  the  blue  distance  that 
seems  to  say,  '  Come  to  me !  I  am  here — hidden  in  my  retreat, 
beyond  the  blue,  and  beyond  the  mirage,  and  beyond  the  farthest 
verge! '" 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

"  I  have  always  felt,  when  we  travelled  in  the  desert,  that  the 
calling  thing, the  soul  of  the  desert,  retreated  as  I  advanced, and 
still  summoned  me  onward  but  always  from  an  infinite  distance." 

"  And  I  too,  Domini." 

"  Now  I  don't  feel  that.  I  feel  as  if  now  we  were  coming 
near  to  the  voice,  as  if  we  should  reach  it  at  Amara,  as  if  there 
it  would  tell  us  its  secret." 

"  Imagination !  "  he  said. 

But  he  spoke  seriously,  almost  mystically.  His  voice  was  at 
odds  with  the  word  it  said.  She  noticed  that  and  was  sure  that 
he  was  secretly  sharing  her  sensation.  She  even  suspected  that 
he  had  perhaps  felt  it  first. 

"  Let  us  ride  on,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  see  the  change  in  the 
light?  Do  you  see  the  green  in  the  sky?  It  is  cooler,  too. 
This  is  the  wind  of  evening." 

Their  hands  fell  apart  and  they  rode  slowly  on,  up  the  long 
slope  of  the  sands. 

Presently  they  saw  that  they  had  come  out  of  the  trackless 
waste  and  that  though  still  a  long  way  from  the  city  they  were 
riding  on  a  desert  road  which  had  been  trodden  by  multitudes 
of  feet.  There  were  many  footprints  here.  On  either  side 
were  low  banks  of  sand,  beaten  into  a  rough  symmetry  by 
implements  of  men,  and  shallow  trenches  through  which  no 
water  ran.  In  front  of  them  they  saw  the  numerous  caravans, 
now  more  distinct,  converging  from  left  and  right  slowly  to  this 
great  isle  of  the  desert  which  stretched  in  a  straight  line  to  the 
minarets. 

"  We  are  on  a  highway,"  Domini  said. 


350  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

Androvsky  sighed. 

"  I  feel  already  as  if  we  were  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd,"  he 
answered. 

"  Our  love  for  peace  oughtn't  to  make  us  hate  our  fellow- 
men  !  "  she  said.  "  Come,  Boris,  let  us  chase  away  our  selfish 
mood!" 

She  spoke  in  a  more  cheerful  voice  and  drew  her  rein  a  little 
tighter.  Her  horse  quickened  its  pace. 

"  And  think  how  our  stay  at  Amara  will  make  us  love  the 
solitudes  when  we  return  to  them  again.  Contrast  is  the  salt 
of  life." 

"  You  speak  as  if  you  didn't  believe  what  you  are  saying." 

She  laughed. 

"  If  I  were  ever  inclined  to  tell  you  a  lie,"  she  said.  "  I 
should  not  dare  to.  Your  mind  penetrates  mine  too  deeply." 

"  You  could  not  tell  me  a  lie." 

"  Do  you  hear  the  dogs  barking?  "  she  said,  after  a  moment. 
"  They  are  among  those  tents  that  are  like  flies  on  the  sands 
around  the  city.  That  is  the  tribe  of  the  Ouled  Nails,  I 
suppose.  Batouch  says  they  camp  here.  What  multitudes  of 
tents!  Those  are  the  suburbs  of  Amara.  I  would  rather  live 
in  them  than  in  the  suburbs  of  London.  Oh,  how  far  away 
we  are,  as  if  we  were  at  the  end  of  the  world !  " 

Either  her  last  words,  or  her  previous  change  of  manner  to  a 
lighter  cheerfulness,  almost  a  briskness,  seemed  to  rouse  An- 
drovsky to  a  greater  confidence,  even  to  anticipation  of  possible 
pleasure. 

"  Yes.  After  all  it  is  only  the  desert  men  who  are  here. 
Amara  is  their  Metropolis,  and  in  it  we  shall  only  see  their 
life." 

His  horse  plunged.     He  had  touched  it  sharply  with  his  heel. 

"  I  believe  you  hate  the  thought  of  civilisation,"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"And  you?" 

"  I  never  think  of  it.  I  feel  almost  as  if  I  had  never  known 
it,  and  could  never  know  it." 

"  Why  should  you  ?     You  love  the  wilds." 

"  They  make  my  whole  nature  leap.  Even  when  I  was 
a  child  it  was  so.  I  remember  once  reading  Maud.  In  it  I 
came  upon  a  passage — I  can't  remember  it  well,  but  it  was  about 
the  red  man " 

She  thought  for  a  moment,  looking  towards  the  city. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is  quite,"  she  murmured.     "  'When 


THE  JOURNEY  351 

the  red  man  laughs  by  his  cedar  tree,  and  the  red  man's  babe 
leaps  beyond  the  sea  ' — something  like  that.  But  I  know  that 
it  made  my  heart  beat,  and  that  I  felt  as  if  I  had  wings  and 
were  spreading  them  to  fly  away  to  the  most  remote  places  of 
the  earth.  And  now  I  have  spread  my  wings,  and — it's  glori- 
ous. Come,  Boris !  " 

They  put  their  horses  to  a  canter,  and  soon  drew  near  to  the 
caravans.  They  had  sent  Batouch  and  Ali,  who  generally  ac- 
companied them,  on  with  the  rest  of  the  camp.  Both  had  many 
friends  in  Amara,  and  were  eager  to  be  there.  It  was  obvious 
that  they  and  all  the  attendants,  servants  and  camel-men, 
thought  of  it  as  the  provincial  Frenchman  thinks  of  Paris,  as  a 
place  of  all  worldly  wonders  and  delights.  Batouch  was  to 
meet  them  at  the  entrance  to  the  city,  and  when  they  had  seen 
the  marvels  of  its  market-place  was  to  conduct  them  to  the  tents 
which  would  be  pitched  on  the  sand-hills  outside. 

Their  horses  pulled  as  if  they,  too,  longed  for  a  spell  of  city 
life  after  the  life  of  the  wastes,  and  Domini's  excitement  grew. 
She  felt  vivid  animal  spirits  boiling  up  within  her,  the  sane  and 
healthy  sense  that  welcomes  a  big  manifestation  of  the  ceaseless 
enterprise  and  keen  activity  of  a  brotherhood  of  men.  The 
loaded  camels,  the  half-naked  running  drivers,  the  dogs  sensi- 
tively sniffing,  as  if  enticing  smells  from  the  city  already 
reached  their  nostrils,  the  chattering  desert  merchants  discussing 
coming  gains,  the  wealthy  and  richly-dressed  Arabs,  mounted 
on  fine  horses,  and  staring  with  eyes  that  glittered  up  the  broad 
track  in  search  of  welcoming  friends,  were  sympathetic  to  her 
mood.  Amara  was  sucking  them  all  in  together  from  the  soli- 
tary places  as  quiet  waters  are  sucked  into  the  turmoils  of  a 
mill-race.  Although  still  out  in  the  sands  they  were  already 
in  the  midst  of  a  noise  of  life  flowing  to  meet  the  roar  of  life  that 
rose  up  at  the  feet  of  the  minarets,  which  now  looked  tall  and 
majestic  in  the  growing  beauty  of  the  sunset. 

They  passed  the  caravans  one  by  one,  and  came  on  to  the 
crest  of  the  long  sand  slope  just  as  the  sky  above  the  city  was 
flushing  with  a  bright  geranium  red.  The  track  from  here  was 
level  to  the  city  wall,  and  was  no  longer  soft  with  sand.  A 
broad,  hard  road  rang  beneath  their  horses'  hoofs,  startling 
them  with  a  music  that  was  like  a  voice  of  civilised  life.  Before 
them,  under  the  red  sky,  they  saw  a  dark  blue  of  distant  houses, 
towers,  and  great  round  cupolas  glittering  like  gold.  Forests 
of  palm  trees  lay  behind,  the  giant  date  palms  for  which  Amara 
was  famous.  To  the  left  stretched  the  sands  dotted  with 


352  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

gleaming  Arab  villages,  to  the  right  again  the  sands  covered 
with  hundreds  of  tents  among  which  quantities  of  figures  moved 
lively  like  ants,  black  on  the  yellow,  arched  by  the  sky  that  was 
alive  with  lurid  colour,  red  fading  into  gold,  gold  into  primrose, 
primrose  into  green,  green  into  the  blue  that  still  told  of  the  fad- 
ing day.  And  to  this  multi-coloured  sky,  from  the  barbaric  city 
and  the  immense  sands  in  which  it  was  set,  rose  a  great  chorus  of 
life;  voices  of  men  and  beasts,  cries  of  naked  children  playing 
Cora  on  the  sand-hills,  of  mothers  to  straying  infants,  shrill 
laughter  of  unveiled  girls  wantonly  gay,  the  calls  of  men,  the 
barking  of  multitudes  of  dogs, — the  guard  dogs  of  the  nomads 
that  are  never  silent  night  or  day, — the  roaring  of  hundreds  of 
camels  now  being  unloaded  for  the  night,  the  gibbering  of  the 
mad  beggars  who  roam  perpetually  on  the  outskirts  of  the  en- 
campments like  wolves  seeking  what  they  may  devour,  the  bray- 
ing of  donkeys,  the  whinnying  of  horses.  And  beneath  these 
voices  of  living  things,  foundation  of  their  uprising  vitality, 
pulsed  barbarous  music,  the  throbbing  tom-toms  that  are  for 
ever  heard  in  the  lands  of  the  sun,  fetish  music  that  suggests 
fatalism,  and  the  grand  monotony  of  the  enormous  spaces,  and 
the  crude  passion  that  repeats  itself,  and  the  untiring,  sultry 
loves  and  the  untired,  sultry  languors  of  the  children  of  the 
sun. 

The  silence  of  the  sands,  which  Domini  and  Androvsky  had 
known  and  loved,  was  merged  in  the  tumult  of  the  sands.  The 
one  had  been  mystical,  laying  the  soul  to  rest.  The  other  was 
provocative,  calling  the  soul  to  wake.  At  this  moment  the 
sands  themselves  seemed  to  stir  with  life  and  to  cry  aloud  with 
voices. 

"The  very  sky  is  barbarous  to-night!"  Domini  exclaimed. 
"  Did  you  ever  see  such  colour,  Boris?  " 

"  Over  the  minarets  it  is  like  a  great  wound,"  he  answered. 

"  No  wonder  men  are  careless  of  human  life  in  such  a  land  as 
this.  All  the  wildness  of  the  world  seems  to  be  concentrated 
here.  Amara  is  like  the  desert  city  of  some  tremendous  dream. 
It  looks  wicked  and  unearthly,  but  how  superb !  " 

"Look  at  those  cupolas!"  he  said.  "Are  there  really 
Oriental  palaces  here?  Has  Batouch  told  us  the  truth  for 
once?" 

"  Or  less  than  the  truth?  I  could  believe  anything  of  Amara 
at  this  moment.  What  hundreds  of  camels!  They  remind  me 
of  Arba,  our  first  halting-place." 

She  looked  at  him  and  he  at  her. 


THE   JOURNEY  353 

"  How  long  ago  that  seems!  "  she  said. 

"  A  thousand  years  ago." 

They  both  had  a  memory  of  a  great  silence,  in  the  midst  of 
this  growing  tumult  in  which  the  sky  seemed  now  to  take  its 
part,  calling  with  the  voices  of  its  fierce  colours,  with  the  voices 
of  the  fires  that  burdened  it  in  the  west. 

"  Silence  joined  us,  Domini,"  Androvsky  said. 

"  Yes.  Perhaps  silence  is  the  most  beautiful  voice  in  the 
world." 

Far  off,  along  the  great  white  road,  they  saw  two  horsemen 
galloping  to  meet  them  from  the  city,  one  dressed  in  brilliant 
saffron  yellow,  the  other  in  the  palest  blue,  both  crowned  with 
large  and  snowy  turbans. 

"  Who  can  they  be  ? "  said  Domini,  as  they  drew  near. 
"  They  look  like  two  princes  of  the  Sahara." 

Then  she  broke  into  a  merry  laugh. 

"  Batouch !  and  Ali !  "  she  exclaimed. 

The  servants  galloped  up  then,  without  slackening  speed, 
deftly  wheeled  their  horses  in  a  narrow  circle,  and  were  beside 
them,  going  with  them,  one  on  the  right  hand,  the  other  on  the 
left. 

"Bravo!"  Domini  cried,  delighted  at  this  feat  of  horse- 
manship. "  But  what  have  you  been  doing  ?  You  are  trans- 
formed!" 

"  Madame,  we  have  been  to  the  Bain  Maure,"  replied 
Batouch,  calmly,  swelling  out  his  broad  chest  under  his  yellow 
jacket  laced  with  gold.  "  We  have  had  our  heads  shaved  till 
they  are  smooth  and  beautiful  as  polished  ivory.  We  have  been 
to  the  perfumer  " — he  leaned  confidentially  towards  her,  ex- 
haling a  pungent  odour  of  amber — "  to  the  tailor,  to  the  ba- 
boosh  bazaar  " — he  kicked  out  a  foot  cased  in  a  slipper  that 
was  bright  almost  as  a  gold  piece — "  to  him  who  sells  the  cher- 
chia."  He  shook  his  head  till  the  spangled  muslin  that  flowed 
about  it  trembled.  "Is  it  not  right  that  your  servants  should 
do  you  honour  in  the  city  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  right,"  she  answered  with  a  careful  seriousness. 
"  I  am  proud  of  you  both." 

"  And  Monsieur?  "  asked  Ali,  speaking  in  his  turn. 

Androvsky  withdrew  his  eyes  from  the  city,  which  was  now 
near  at  hand. 

"  Splendid !  "  he  said,  but  as  if  attending  to  the  Arabs  with 
difficulty.  "You  are  splendid." 

As  they  came  towards  the  old  wall  which  partially  surrounds 


354  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

Amara,  and  which  rises  from  a  deep  natural  moat  of  sand,  they 
saw  that  the  ground  immediately  before  the  city  which,  from  a 
distance,  had  looked  almost  flat,  was  in  reality  broken  up  into  a 
series  of  wavelike  dunes,  some  small  with  depressions  like  deep 
crevices  between  them,  others  large  with  summits  like  plateaux. 
These  dunes  were  of  a  sharp  lemon  yellow  in  the  evening  light, 
a  yellow  that  was  cold  in  its  clearness,  almost  setting  the  teeth  on 
edge.  They  went  away  into  great  rolling  slopes  of  sand  on 
which  the  camps  of  the  nomads  and  the  Ouled  Nails  were 
pitched,  some  near  to,  some  distant  from,  the  city,  but  they  them- 
selves were  solitary.  No  tents  were  pitched  close  to  the  city, 
under  the  shadow  of  its  wall.  As  Androvsky  spoke,  Domini 
exclaimed : 

"  Boris — look!  That  is  the  most  extraordinary  thing  I  have 
ever  seen !  " 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm.  He  obeyed  her  eyes  and 
looked  to  his  right,  to  the  small  lemon-yellow  dunes  that  were 
close  to  them.  At  perhaps  a  hundred  yards  from  the  road  was 
a  dune  that  ran  parallel  with  it.  The  fire  of  the  sinking  sun 
caught  its  smooth  crest,  and  above  this  crest,  moving  languidly 
towards  the  city,  were  visible  the  heads  and  busts  of  three 
women,  the  lower  halves  of  whose  bodies  were  concealed  by 
the  sand  of  the  farther  side  of  the  dune.  They  were  dancing- 
girls.  On  their  heads,  piled  high  with  gorgeous  handkerchiefs, 
were  golden  crowns  which  glittered  in  the  sun-rays,  and  tufts  of 
scarlet  feathers.  Their  oval  faces,  covered  with  paint,  were 
partially  concealed  by  long  strings  of  gold  coins,  which  flowed 
from  their  crowns  down  over  their  large  breasts  and  disappeared 
towards  their  waists,  which  were  hidden  by  the  sand.  Their 
dresses  were  of  scarlet,  apple-green  and  purple  silks,  partially 
covered  by  floating  shawls  of  spangled  muslin.  Beneath  their 
crowns  and  handkerchiefs  burgeoned  forth  plaits  of  false  hair 
decorated  with  coral  and  silver  ornaments.  Their  hands,  which 
they  held  high,  gesticulating  above  the  crest  of  the  dune,  were 
painted  blood  red. 

These  busts  and  heads  glided  slowly  along  in  the  setting  sun, 
and  presently  sank  down  and  vanished  into  some  depression  of 
the  dunes.  For  an  instant  one  blood-red  hand  was  visible  alone, 
waving  a  signal  above  the  sand  to  someone  unseen.  Its  fingers 
fluttered  like  the  wings  of  a  startled  bird.  Then  it,  too,  van- 
ished, and  the  sharply-cold  lemon  yellow  of  the  dunes  stretched 
in  vivid  loneliness  beneath  the  evening  sky. 

To  both  of  them  this  brief  vision  of  women  in  the  sand 


THE   JOURNEY  355 

brought  home  the  solitude  of  the  desert  and  the  barbarity  of  the 
life  it  held,  the  ascetism  of  this  supreme  manifestation  of 
Nature  and  the  animal  passion  which  fructifies  in  its  heart. 

"  Do  you  know  what  that  made  me  think  of,  Boris?  "  Domini 
said,  as  the  red.hand  with  its  swiftly-moving  fingers  disappeared. 
"  You'll  smile,  perhaps,  and  I  scarcely  know  why.  It  made  me 
think  of  the  Devil  in  a  monastery." 

Androvsky  did  not  smile.  Nor  did  he  answer.  She  felt  sure 
that  he,  too,  had  been  strongly  affected  by  that  glimpse  of  Sahara 
life.  His  silence  gave  Batouch  an  opportunity  of  pouring  forth 
upon  them  a  flood  of  poetical  description  of  the  dancing-girls  of 
Amara,  all  of  whom  he  seemed  to  know  as  intimate  friends. 
Before  he  -ceased  they  came  into  the  city. 

The  road  was  still  majestically  broad.  They  looked  with 
interest  at  the  first  houses,  one  on  each  side  of  the  way.  And 
here  again  they  were  met  by  the  sharp  contrast  which  was  evi- 
dently to  be  the  keynote  of  Amara.  The  house  on  the  left  was 
European,  built  of  white  stone,  clean,  attractive,  but  uninterest- 
ing, with  stout  white  pillars  of  plaster  supporting  an  arcade  that 
afforded  shade  from  the  sun,  windows  with  green  blinds,  and 
an  open  doorway  showing  a  little  hall,  on  the  floor  of  which 
lay  a  smart  rug  glowing  with  gay  colours;  that  on  the  right, 
before  which  the  sand  lay  deep  as  if  drifted  there  by  some 
recent  wind  of  the  waste,  was  African  and  barbarous,  an  im- 
mense and  rambling  building  of  brown  earth,  brushwood  and 
palm,  windowless,  with  a  flat-terraced  roof,  upon  which  were 
piled  many  strange-looking  objects  like  things  collapsed,  red 
and  dark  green,  with  fringes  and  rosettes,  and  tall  sticks  of 
palm  pointing  vaguely  to  the  sky. 

"  Why,  these  are  like  our  palanquin !  "  Domini  said. 

"  They  are  the  palanquins  of  the  dancing-girls,  Madame," 
said  Batouch.  "  That  is  the  cafe  of  the  dancers,  and  that  " — 
he  pointed  to  the  neat  house  opposite — "  is  the  house  of  Mon- 
sieur the  Aumonier  of  Amara." 

"  Aumonier,"  said  Androvsky,  sharply.     "  Here!  " 

He  paused,  then  added  more  quietly: 

||  What  should  he  do  here?" 

"  But,  Monsieur,  he  is  for  the  French  officers." 

"  There  are  Franch  officers?  " 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  four  or  five,  and  the  commandant.  They 
live  in  the  palace  with  the  cupolas." 

"  I  forgot,"  Androvsky  said  to  Domini.  "  We  are  not  out  of 
the  sphere  of  French  influence.  This  place  looks  so  remote 


356  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

and  so  barbarous  that  I  imagined  it  given  over  entirely  to  the 
desert  men." 

"  We  need  not  see  the  French,"  she  said.  "  We  shall  be 
encamped  outside  in  the  sand." 

"  And  we  need  not  stay  here  long,"  he  said  quickly. 

"  Boris,"  she  asked  him,  half  in  jest,  half  in  earnest,  "  shall 
we  buy  a  desert  island  to  live  in  ?  " 

"  Let  us  buy  an  oasis,"  he  said.  "  That  would  be  the 
perf the  safest  life  for  us." 

"The  safest?" 

"  The  safest  for  our  happiness.  Domini,  I  have  a  horror  of 
the  world !  "  He  said  the  last  words  with  a  strong,  almost  fierce, 
emphasis. 

"  Had  you  it  always,  or  only  since  we  have  been  married  ?  " 

"  I — perhaps  it  was  born  in  me,  perhaps  it  is  part  of  me. 
Who  knows?" 

He  had  relapsed  into  a  gravity  that  was  heavy  with  gloom, 
and  looked  about  him  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  wish  to  reject 
all  that  offered  itself  to  their  sight. 

"  I  want  the  desert  and  you  in  it,"  he  said.  "  The  lonely 
desert,  with  you." 

"And  nothing  else?" 

"  I  want  that.     I  cannot  have  that  taken  from  me." 

He  looked  about  him  quickly  from  side  to  side  as  they  rode 
up  the  street,  as  if  he  were  a  scout  sent  in  advance  of  an  army 
and  suspected  ambushes.  His  manner  reminded  her  of  the  way 
he  had  looked  towards  the  tower  as  they  rode  into  Mogar.  And 
he  had  connected  that  tower  with  the  French.  She  remembered 
his  saying  to  her  that  it  must  have  been  built  for  French  soldiers. 
As  they  rode  into  Mogar  he  had  dreaded  something  in  Mogar. 
The  strange  incident  with  De  Trevignac  had  followed.  She 
had  put  it  from  her  mind  as  a  matter  of  small,  or  no,  importance, 
had  resolutely  forgotten  it,  had  been  able  to  forget  it  in  their 
dream  of  desert  life  and  desert  passion.  But  the  entry  into  a 
city  for  the  moment  destroyed  the  dreamlike  atmosphere  woven 
by  the  desert,  recalled  her  town  sense,  that  quick-wittedness, 
that  sharpness  of  apprehension  and  swiftness  of  observation 
which  are  bred  in  those  who  have  long  been  accustomed  to  a  life 
in  the  midst  of  crowds  and  movement,  and  changing  scenes  and 
passing  fashions.  Suddenly  she  seemed  to  herself  to  be  reading 
Androvsky  with  an  almost  merciless  penetration,  which  yet  she 
could  not  check.  He  had  dreaded  something  in  Mogar.  He 
dreaded  something  here  in  Amara.  An  unusual  incident — for 


THE   JOURNEY  357 

the  coming  of  a  stranger  into  their  lives  out  of  their  desolation 
of  the  sand  was  unusual — had  followed  close  upon  the  first 
dread.  Would  another  such  incident  follow  upon  this  second 
dread  ?  And  of  what  was  this  dread  born  ? 

Batouch  drew  her  attention  to  the  fact  that  they  were  coming 
to  the  market-place,  and  to  the  curious  crowds  of  people  who 
were  swarming  out  of  the  tortuous,  narrow  streets  into  the  main 
thoroughfare  to  watch  them  pass,  or  to  accompany  them,  run- 
ning beside  their  horses.  She  divined  at  once,  by  the  passionate 
curiosity  their  entry  aroused,  that  he  had  misspent  his  leisure  in 
spreading  through  the  city  lying  reports  of  their  immense  im- 
portance and  fabulous  riches. 

"  Batouch,"  she  said,  "  you  have  been  talking  about  us." 

"  No,  Madame,  I  merely  said  that  Madame  is  a  great  lady  in 
her  own  land,  and  that  Monsieur " 

"  I  forbid  you  ever  to  speak  about  me,  Batouch,"  said  Androv- 
sky,  brusquely. 

He  seemed  worried  by  the  clamour  of  the  increasing  mob 
that  surrounded  them.  Children  in  long  robes  like  night-gowns 
skipped  before  them,  calling  out  in  shrill  voices.  Old  beggars, 
with  diseased  eyes  and  deformed  limbs,  laid  filthy  hands  upon 
their  bridles  and  demanded  alms.  Impudent  boys,  like  bronze 
statuettes  suddenly  endowed  with  a  fury  of  life,  progressed  back- 
wards to  keep  them  full  in  view,  shouting  information  at  them 
and  proclaiming  their  own  transcendent  virtues  as  guides.  Lithe 
desert  men,  almost  naked,  but  with  carefully-covered  heads, 
strode  beside  them,  keeping  pace  with  the  horses,  saying  nothing, 
but  watching  them  with  a  bright  intentness  that  seemed  to  hint 
at  unutterable  designs.  And  towards  them,  through  the  air 
that  seemed  heavy  and  almost  suffocating  now  that  they  were 
among  buildings,  and  through  clouds  of  buzzing  flies,  came  the 
noise  of  the  larger  tumult  of  the  market-place. 

Looking  over  the  heads  of  the  throng  Domini  saw  the  wide 
road  opening  out  into  a  great  space,  with  the  first  palms  of  the 
oasis  thronging  on  the  left,  and  a  cluster  of  buildings,  many 
with  small  cupolas,  like  down-turned  white  cups,  on  the  right. 
On  the  farther  side  of  this  space,  which  was  black  with  people 
clad  for  the  most  in  dingy  garments,  was  an  arcade  jutting  out 
from  a  number  of  hovel-like  houses,  and  to  the  right  of  them, 
where  the  market-place,  making  a  wide  sweep,  continued  up  hill 
and  was  hidden  from  her  view,  was  the  end  of  the  great  build- 
ing whose  gilded  cupolas  they  had  seen  as  they  rode  in  from 
the  desert,  rising  above  the  city  with  the  minarets  of  its  mosques. 


358  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

The  flies  buzzed  furiously  about  the  horses'  heads  and  flanks, 
and  the  people  buzzed  more  furiously,  like  larger  flies,  about 
the  riders.  It  seemed  to  Domini  as  if  the  whole  city  was  intent 
upon  her  and  Androvsky,  was  observing  them,  considering  them, 
wondering  about  them,  was  full  of  a  thousand  intentions  all 
connected  with  them. 

When  they  gained  the  market-place  the  noise  and  the  watch- 
ful curiosity  made  a  violent  crescendo.  It  happened  to  be  market 
day  and,  although  the  sun  was  setting,  buying  and  selling  were 
not  yet  over.  On  the  hot  earth  over  which,  whenever  there  is 
any  wind  from  the  desert,  the  white  sand  grains  sift  and  settle, 
were  laid  innumerable  rugs  of  gaudy  colours  on  which  were 
disposed  all  sorts  of  goods  for  sale;  heavy  ornaments  for  women, 
piles  of  burnouses,  haiks,  gandouras,  gaiters  of  bright  red  leather, 
slippers,  weapons — many  jewelled  and  gilt,  or  rich  with  pat- 
terns in  silver — pyramids  of  the  cords  of  camels'  hair  that  bind 
the  turbans  of  the  desert  men,  handkerchiefs  and  cottons  of  all 
the  colours  of  the  rainbow,  cheap  perfumes  in  azure  flasks 
powdered  with  golden  and  silver  flowers  and  leaves,  incense 
twigs,  panniers  of  henna  to  dye  the  finger-nails  of  the  faithful, 
innumerable  comestibles,  vegetables,  corn,  red  butcher's  meat 
thickly  covered  with  moving  insects,  pale  yellow  cakes  crisp  and 
shining,  morsels  of  liver  spitted  on  skewers — which,  cooked  with 
dust  of  keef,  produce  a  dreamy  drunkenness  more  overwhelming 
even  than  that  produced  by  haschish — musical  instruments,  der- 
boukas,  guitars,  long  pipes,  and  strange  fiddles  with  two  strings, 
tom-toms,  skins  of  animals  with  heads  and  claws,  live  birds, 
tortoise  backs,  and  plaits  of  false  hair. 

The  sellers  squatted  on  the  ground,  their  brown  and  hairy 
legs  crossed,  calmly  gazing  before  them,  or,  with  frenzied  voices 
and  gestures,  driving  bargains  with  the  buyers,  who  moved  to 
and  fro,  treading  carelessly  among  the  merchandise.  The  tellers 
of  fates  glided  through  the  press,  fingering  the  amulets  that  hung 
upon  their  hearts.  Conjurors  proclaimed  the  merits  of  their 
miracles,  bawling  in  the  faces  of  the  curious.  Dwarfs  went  to 
and  fro,  dressed  in  bright  colours  with  green  and  yellow  turbans 
on  their  enormous  heads,  tapping  with  long  staves,  and  relating 
their  deformities.  Water-sellers  sounded  their  gongs.  Before 
pyramids  of  oranges  and  dates,  neatly  arranged  in  patterns,  sat 
boys  crying  in  shrill  voices  the  luscious  virtues  of  their  fruits. 
Idiots,  with  blear  eyes  and  protending  under-lips,  gibbered  and 
whined.  Dogs  barked.  Bakers  hurried  along  with  trays  of 
loaves  upon  their  heads.  From  the  low  and  smoky  arcades  to 


THE   JOURNEY  359 

right  and  left  came  the  reiterated  grunt  of  negroes  pounding 
coffee.  A  fanatic  was  roaring  out  his  prayers.  Arabs  in  scarlet 
and  blue  cloaks  passed  by  to  the  Bain  Maure?  under  whose  white 
and  blue  archway  lounged  the  Kabyle  masseurs  with  folded, 
muscular  arms.  A  marabout,  black  as  a  coal,  rode  on  a  white 
horse  towards  the  great  mosque,  followed  by  his  servant  on 
foot. 

Native  soldiers  went  by  to  the  Kasba  on  the  height,  or  strolled 
down  towards  the  Cafes  Maures  smoking  cigarettes.  Circles  of 
grave  men  bent  over  card  games,  dominoes  and  draughts — called 
by  the  Arabs  the  Ladies*  Game.  Khodjas  made  their  way  with 
dignity  towards  the  Bureau  Arabe.  Veiled  women,  fat  and 
lethargic,  jingling  with  ornaments,  waddled  through  the  arches 
of  the  arcades,  carrying  in  their  painted  and  perspiring  hands 
blocks  of  sweetmeats  which  drew  the  flies.  Children  played  in 
the  dust  by  little  heaps  of  refuse,  which  they  stirred  up  into 
clouds  with  their  dancing,  naked  feet.  In  front,  as  if  from  the 
first  palms  of  the  oasis,  rose  the  roar  of  beaten  drums  from  the 
negroes'  quarter,  and  from  the  hill-top  at  the  feet  of  the  minarets 
came  the  fierce  and  piteous  noise  that  is  the  leit-motif  of  the 
desert,  the  multitudinous  complaining  of  camels  dominating  all 
other  sounds. 

As  Domini  and  Androvsky  rode  into  this  whirlpool  of 
humanity,  above  which  the  sky  was  red  like  a  great  wound,  it 
flowed  and  eddied  round  them,  making  them  its  centre.  The 
arrival  of  a  stranger- woman  was  a  rare,  if  not  an  unparalleled, 
event  in  Amara,  and  Batouch  had  been  very  busy  in  spreading 
the  fame  of  his  mistress. 

"  Madame  should  dismount,"  said  Batouch.  "  Ali  will  take 
the  horses,  and  I  will  escort  Madame  and  Monsieur  up  the 
hill  to  the  place  of  the  fountain.  Shabah  will  be  there  to 
greet  Madame." 

"What  an  uproar!"  Domini  exclaimed,  half  laughing,  half 
confused.  "  Who  on  earth  is  Shabah  ?  " 

"  Shabah  is  the  Cai'd  of  Amara,"  replied  Batouch  with  dig- 
nity. "  The  greatest  man  of  the  city.  He  awaits  Madame  by 
the  fountain."  Domini  cast  a  glance  at  Androvsky. 

"Well?  "she  said. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  like  a  man  who  thinks  strife  useless 
and  the  moment  come  for  giving  in  to  Fate.* 

"  The  monster  has  opened  his  jaws  for  us,"  he  said,  forcing 
a  laugh.  "  We  had  better  walk  in,  I  suppose.  But — O 
Domini ! — the  silence  of  the  wastes !  " 


360  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  We  shall  know  it  again.  This  is  only  for  the  moment. 
We  shall  have  all  its  joy  again." 

"Who  knows?"  he  said,  as  he  had  said  when  they  were 
riding  up  the  sand  slope.  "Who  knows?" 

Then  they  got  off  their  horses  and  were  taken  by  the  crowd. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

THE  tumult  of  Amara  waked  up  in  Domini  the  town-sense  that 
had  been  slumbering.  All  that  seemed  to  confuse,  to  daze,  to 
repel  Androvsky,  even  to  inspire  him  with  fear,  the  noise  of  the 
teeming  crowds,  their  perpetual  movement,  their  contact,  startled 
her  into  a  vividness  of  life  and  apprehension  of  its  various 
meanings,  that  sent  a  thrill  through  her.  And  the  thrill  was 
musical  with  happiness.  To  the  sad  a  great  vision  of  human  life 
brings  sadness  because  they  read  into  the  hearts  of  others  their 
own  misery.  But  to  the  happy  such  a  vision  brings  exultation, 
for  everywhere  they  find  dancing  reflections  of  their  own  joy. 
Domini  had  lived  much  in  crowds,  but  always  she  had  been 
actively  unhappy,  or  at  least  coldly  dreary  in  them.  Now,  for 
the  first  time,  she  was  surrounded  by  masses  of  fellow-beings 
in  her  splendid  contentment.  And  the  effect  of  this  return,  as 
it  were,  to  something  like  the  former  material  conditions  of  her 
life,  with  the  mental  and  affectional  conditions  of  it  transformed 
by  joy,  was  striking  even  to  herself.  Suddenly  she  realised  to 
the  full  her  own  humanity,  and  the  living  warmth  of  sympathy 
that  is  fanned  into  flame  in  a  human  heart  by  the  presence  of 
human  life  with  its  hopes,  desires,  fears,  passions,  joys,  that  leap 
to  the  eye.  Instead  of  hating  this  fierce  change  from  solitude 
with  the  man  she  loved  to  a  crowd  with  the  man  she  loved  she 
rejoiced  in  it.  Androvsky  was  the  cause  of  both  her  joys,  joy 
in  the  waste  and  joy  in  Amara,  but  while  he  shared  the  one 
he  did  not  share  the  other. 

This  did  not  surprise  her  because  of  the  conditions  in  which 
he  had  lived.  He  was  country-bred  and  had  always  dwelt  far 
from  towns.  She  was  returning  to  an  old  experience — old,  for 
the  London  crowd  and  the  crowd  of  Amara  were  both  crowds  of 
men,  however  different — with  a  mind  transformed  by  happi- 
ness. To  him  the  experience  was  new.  Something  within  her 
told  her  that  it  was  necessary,  that  it  had  been  ordained  because 
he  needed  it.  The  recalled  town-sense,  with  its  sharpness  of 
observation,  persisted.  As  she  rode  in  to  Amara  she  had  seemed 


THE  JOURNEY  361 

to  herself  to  be  reading  Androvsky  with  an  almost  merciless 
penetration  which  yet  she  could  not  check.  Now  she  did  not 
wish  to  check  it,  for  the  penetration  that  is  founded  on  perfect 
love  can  only  yield  good  fruit.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was 
allowed  to  see  clearly  for  Androvsky  what  he  could  not  see  him- 
self, almost  as  the  mother  sees  for  the  child.  This  contact  with 
the  crowds  of  Amara  was,  she  thought,  one  of  the  gifts  the  desert 
made  to  him.  He  did  not  like  it.  He  wished  to  reject  it.  But 
he  was  mistaken.  For  the  moment  his  vision  was  clouded,  as 
our  vision  for  ourselves  so  often  is.  She  realised  this,  and,  for 
the  first  time  since  the  marriage  service  at  Beni-Mora,  perhaps 
seemed  to  be  selfish.  She  opposed  his  wish.  Hitherto  there 
had  never  been  any  sort  of  contest  between  them.  Their  desires, 
like  their  hearts,  had  been  in  accord.  Now  there  was  not  a 
contest,  for  Androvsky  yielded  to  Domini's  preference,  when 
she  expressed  it,  with  a  quickness  that  set  his  passion  before  her 
in  a  new  and  beautiful  light.  But  she  knew  that,  for  the 
moment,  they  were  not  in  accord.  He  hated  and  dreaded  what 
she  encountered  with  a  vivid  sensation  of  sympathy  and  joy. 

She  felt  that  there  was  something  morbid  in  his  horror  of 
the  crowd,  and  the  same  strength  of  her  nature  said  to  her, 
"Uproot  it!" 

Their  camp  was  pitched  on  the  sand-hills,  to  the  north  of  the 
city  near  the  French  and  Arab  cemeteries.  They  reached  it 
only  when  darkness  was  falling,  going  out  of  the  city  on  foot 
by  the  great  wall  of  dressed  stone  which  enclosed  the  Kasba  of 
the  native  soldiers,  and  ascending  and  descending  various  slopes 
of  deep  sand,  over  which  the  airs  of  night  blew  with  a  peculiar 
thin  freshness  that  renewed  Domini's  sense  of  being  at  the  end 
of  the  world.  Everything  here  whispered  the  same  message, 
said,  "  We  are  the  denizens  of  far-away." 

In  their  walk  to  the  camp  they  were  accompanied  by  a  little 
procession.  Shabah,  the  Ca'id  of  Amara,  a  shortish  man  whose 
immense  dignity  made  him  almost  gigantic,  insisted  upon  attend- 
ing them  to  the  tents,  with  his  young  brother,  a  pretty,  libertine 
boy  of  sixteen,  the  brother's  tutor,  an  Arab  black  as  a  negro  but 
without  the  negro's  look  of  having  been  freshly  oiled,  and  two 
attendants.  To  them  joined  himself  the  Cai'd  of  the  Nomads, 
a  swarthy  potentate  who  not  only  looked,  but  actually  was,  im- 
mense, his  four  servants,  and  his  uncle,  a  venerable  person  like 
a  shepherd  king.  These  worthies  surrounded  Domini  and 
Androvsky,  and  behind  streamed  the  curious,  the  envious,  the 
greedy  and  the  desultory  Arabs,  who  follow  in  the  trail  of  every 


362  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

stranger,  hopeful  of  the  crumbs  that  are  said  to  fall  from  the 
rich  man's  table.  Shabah  spoke  French  and  led  the  conversa- 
tion, which  was  devoted  chiefly  to  his  condition  of  health.  Some 
years  before  an  attempt  had  been  made  upon  his  life  by  poison, 
and  since  that  time,  as  he  himself  expressed  it,  his  stomach  had 
been  "perturbed  as  a  guard  dog  in  the  night  when  robbers  are 
approaching."  All  efforts  to  console  or  to  inspire  him  with  hope 
of  future  cure  were  met  with  a  stern  hopelessness,  a  brusque 
certainty  of  perpetual  suffering.  The  idea  that  his  stomach 
could  again  know  peace  evidently  shocked  and  distressed  him, 
and  as  they  all  waded  together  through  the  sand,  pioneered  by 
the  glorified  Batouch,  Domini  was  obliged  to  yield  to  his  em- 
phatic despair,  and  to  join  with  him  in  his  appreciation  of  the 
perpetual  indigestion  which  set  him  apart  from  the  rest  of  the 
world  like  some  God  within  a  shrine.  The  skittish  boy,  his 
brother,  who  wore  kid  gloves,  cast  at  her  sly  glances  of  admira- 
tion which  asked  for  a  return.  The  black  tutor  grinned.  And 
the  Ca'id  of  the  Nomads  punctuated  their  progress  with  loud 
grunts  of  heavy  satisfaction,  occasionally  making  use  of  Batouch 
as  interpreter  to  express  his  hopes  that  they  would  visit  his 
•palace  in  the  town,  and  devour  a  cous-cous  on  his  carpet. 

When  they  came  to  the  tents  it  was  necessary  to  entertain 
these  personages  with  coffee,  and  they  finally  departed  promising 
a  speedy  return,  and  full  of  invitations,  which  were  cordially 
accepted  by  Batouch  on  his  employer's  behalf  before  either 
Domini  or  Androvsky  had  time  to  say  a  word. 

As  the  cortege  disappeared  over  the  sands  towards  the  city 
Domini  burst  into  a  little  laugh,  and  drew  Androvsky  out  to  the 
tent  door  to  see  them  go. 

"  Society  in  the  sands !  "  she  exclaimed  gaily.  "  Boris,  this  is 
a  new  experience.  Look  at  our  guests  making  their  way  to  their 
palaces!" 

Slowly  the  potentates  progressed  across  the  white  dunes 
towards  the  city.  Shabah  wore  a  long  red  cloak.  His  brother 
was  in  pink  and  gold,  with  white  billowing  trousers.  The  Cai'd 
of  the  Nomads  was  in  green.  They  all  moved  with  a  large  and 
conscious  .majesty,  surrounded  by  their  obsequious  attendants. 
Above  them  the  purple  sky  showed  a  bright  evening  star.  Near 
it  was  visible  the  delicate  silhouette  of  the  young  moon.  Scat- 
tered over  the  waste  rose  many  koubbahs,  grey  in  the  white, 
with  cupolas  of  gypse.  Hundreds  of  dogs  were  barking  in  the 
distance.  To  the  left,  on  the  vast,  rolling  slopes  of  sand,  glared 
the  innumerable  fires  kindled  before  the  tents  of  the  Ouled 


THE   JOURNEY  363 

Nails.  Before  the  sleeping  tent  rose  the  minarets  and  the  gilded 
cupolas  of  the  city  which  it  dominated  from  its  mountain  of  sand. 
Behind  it  was  the  blanched  immensity  of  the  plain,  of  the  lonely 
desert  from  which  Domini  and  Androvsky  had  come  to  face  this 
barbaric  stir  of  life.  And  the  city  was  full  of  music,  of  tom- 
toms throbbing,  of  bugles  blowing  in  the  Kasba,  of  pipes  shriek- 
ing from  hidden  dwellings,  and  of  the  faint  but  multitudinous 
voices  of  men,  carried  to  them  on  their  desolate  and  treeless 
height  by  the  frail  wind  of  night  that  seemed  a  white  wind, 
twin-brother  of  the  sands. 

"  Let  us  go  a  step  or  two  towards  the  city,  Boris,"  Domini 
said,  as  their  guests  sank  magnificently  down  into  a  fold  of  the 
dunes. 

"  Towards  the  city!  "  he  answered.  "Why  not ?  "  He 

glanced  behind  him  to  the  vacant,  noiseless  sands. 

She  set  her  impulse  against  his  for  the  first  time. 

"  No,  this  is  our  town  life,  our  Sahara  season.  Let  us  give 
ourselves  to  it.  The  loneliness  will  be  its  antidote  some  day." 

"  Very  well,  Domini,"  he  answered. 

They  went  a  little  way  towards  the  city,  and  stood  still  in  the 
sand  at  the  edge  of  their  height. 

"  Listen,  Boris!  Isn't  it  strange  in  the  night  all  this  barbaric 
music?  It  excites  me." 

"  You  are  glad  to  be  here." 

She  heard  the  note  of  disappointment  in  his  voice,  but  did 
not  respond  to  it. 

"  And  look  at  all  those  fires,  hundreds  of  them  in  the  sand !  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  it  is  wonderful,  but  the  solitudes  are  best. 
This  is  not  the  heart  of  the  desert,  this  is  what  the  Arabs  call  it, 
'  The  belly  of  the  Desert.'  In  the  heart  of  the  desert  there  is 
silence." 

She  thought  of  the  falling  of  the  wind  when  the  Sahara  took 
them,  and  knew  that  her  love  of  the  silence  was  intense.  Never- 
theless, to-night  the  other  part  of  her  was  in  the  ascendant.  She 
wanted  him  to  share  it.  He  did  not.  Could  she  provoke  him 
to  share  it  ? 

"  Yet,  as  we  rode  in,  I  had  a  feeling  that  the  heart  of  the 
desert  was  here,"  she  said.  "  You  know  I  said  so." 

"  Do  you  say  so  still  ?  " 

"  The  heart,  Boris,  is  the  centre  of  life,  isn't  it?  " 

He  was  silent.     She  felt  his  inner  feeling  fighting  hers. 

'  To-night,"  she  said,  putting  her  arm  through  his,  and  look- 
ing towards  the  city,  "  I  feel  a  tremendous  sympathy  with  human 


364  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

life  such  as  I  never  felt  before.  Boris,  it  comes  to  me  from  you. 
Yes,  it  does.  It  is  born  of  my  love  for  you,  and  seems  to  link 
me,  and  you  with  me,  to  all  these  strangers,  to  all  men  and 
women,  to  everything  that  lives.  It  is  as  if  I  was  not  quite 
human  before,  and  my  love  for  you  had  made  me  completely 
human,  had  done  something  to  me  that  even — even  my  love  for 
God  had  not  been  able  to  do." 

She  lowered  her  voice  at  the  last  words.  After  a  moment  she 
added : 

"  Perhaps  in  isolation,  even  with  you,  I  could  not  come  to 
completeness.  Perhaps  you  could  not  in  isolation  even  with  me. 
Boris,  I  think  it's  good  for  us  to  be  in  the  midst  of  life  for  a 
time." 

"  You  wish  to  remain  here,  Domini  ?  " 

"  Yes,  for  a  time." 

The  fatalistic  feeling  that  had  sometimes  come  upon  her  in 
this  land  entered  into  her  at  this  moment.  She  felt,  "  It  is 
written  that  we  are  to  remain  here." 

"  Let  us  remain  here,  Domini,"  he  said  quietly. 

The  note  of  disappointment  had  gone  out  of  his  voice, 
deliberately  banished  from  it  by  his  love  for  her,  but  she  seemed 
to  hear  it,  nevertheless,  echoing  far  down  in  his  soul.  At  that 
moment  she  loved  him  like  a  woman  he  had  made  a  lover,  but 
also  like  a  woman  he  had  made  a  mother  by  becoming  a  child. 

"  Thank  you,  Boris,"  she  answered  very  quietly.  "  You  are 
good  to  me." 

"  You  are  good  to  me,"  he  said,  remembering  the  last  words 
of  Father  Roubier.  "  How  can  I  be  anything  else  ?  "  , 

Directly  he  had  spoken  the  words  his  body  trembled  violently. 

"Boris,  what  is  it?"  she  exclaimed,  startled. 

He  took  his  arm  away  from  hers. 

"  These — these  noises  of  the  city  in  the  night  coming  across 
the  sand-hills  are  extraordinary.  I  have  become  so  used  to 
silence  that  perhaps  they  get  upon  my  nerves.  I  shall  grow 
accustomed  to  them  presently." 

He  turned  towards  the  tents,  and  she  went  with  him.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  he  had  evaded  her  question,  that  he  had  not 
wished  to  answer  it,  and  the  sense  sharply  awakened  in  her  by  a 
return  to  life  near  a  city  made  her  probe  for  the  reason  of  this. 
She  did  not  find  it,  but  in  her  mental  search  she  found  herself 
presently  at  Mogar.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  same  sort  of 
uneasiness  which  had  beset  her  husband  at  Mogar  beset  him 
now  more  fiercely  at  Amara,  that,  as  he  had  just  said,  his  nerves 


THE   JOURNEY  365 

were  being  tortured  by  something.  But  it  could  not  be  the 
'noises  from  the  city. 

After  dinner  Batouch  came  to  the  tent  to  suggest  that  they 
should  go  down  with  him  into  the  city.  Domini,  feeling  certain 
that  Androvsky  would  not  wish  to  go,  at  once  refused,  alleging 
that  she  was  tired.  Batouch  then  asked  Androvsky  to  go  with 
him,  and,  to  Domini's  astonishment,  he  said  that  if  she  did  not 
mind  his  leaving  her  for  a  short  time  he  would  like  a  stroll. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said  to  her,  as  Batouch  and  he  were  starting, 
"  perhaps  it  will  make  me  more  completely  human ;  perhaps 
there  is  something  still  to  be  done  that  even  you,  Domini,  have 
not  accomplished." 

She  knew  he  was  alluding  to  her  words  before  dinner.  He 
stood  looking  at  her  with  a  slight  smile  that  did  not  suggest 
happiness,  then  added: 

"  That  link  you  spoke  of  between  us  and  these  strangers  " — 
he  made  a  gesture  towards  the  city — "  I  ought  perhaps  to  feel  it 
more  strongly  than  I  do.  I — I  will  try  to  feel  it." 

Then  he  turned  away,  and  went  with  Batouch  across  the 
sand-hills,  walking  heavily. 

As  Domini  watched  him  going  she  felt  chilled,  because  there 
was  something  in  his  manner,  in  his  smile,  that  seemed  for  the 
moment  to  set  them  apart  from  each  other,  something  she  did 
not  understand. 

Soon  Androvsky  disappeared  in  a  fold  of  the  sands  as  he  had 
disappeared  in  a  fold  of  the  sands  at  Mogar,  not  long  before  De 
Trevignac  came.  She  thought  of  Mogar  once  more,  steadily, 
reviewing  mentally — with  the  renewed  sharpness  of  intellect 
that  had  returned  to  her,  brought  by  contact  with  the  city — all 
that  had  passed  there,  as  she  never  reviewed  it  before* 

It  had  been  a  strange  episode. 

She  began  to  walk  slowly  up  and  down  on  the  sand  before 
the  tent.  Ouardi  came  to  walk  with  her,  but  she  sent  him  away. 
Before  doing  so,  however,  something  moved  her  to  ask  him : 

"  That  African  liqueur,  Ouardi — you  remember  that  you 
brought  to  the  tent  at  Mogar — have  we  any  more  of  it?  " 

;<  The  monk's  liqueur,  Madame?  " 

c"  What  do  you  mean — monk's  liqueur?  " 

"  It  was  invented  by  a  monk,  Madame,  and  is  sold  by  the 
monks  of  El-Largani." 

"  Oh !     Have  we  any  more  of  it  ?  " 

"  There  is  another  bottle,  Madame,  but  I  should  not  dare  to 
bring  it  if " 


366  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

He  paused. 

'"If  what,  Ouardi?" 

"  If  Monsieur  were  there." 

Domini  was  on  the  point  of  asking  him  why,  but  she  checked 
herself  and  told  him  to  leave  her.  Then  she  walked  up  and 
down  once  more  on  the  sand.  She  was  thinking  now  of  the 
broken  glass  on  the  ground  at  Androvsky's  feet  when  she  found 
him  alone  in  the  tent  after  De  Trevignac  had  gone.  Ouardi's 
words  made  her  wonder  whether  this  liqueur,  brought  to  cele- 
brate De  Trevignac's  presence  in  the  camp,  had  turned  the  con- 
versation upon  the  subject  of  the  religious  orders;  whether 
Androvsky  had  perhaps  said  something  against  them  which  had 
offended  De  Trevignac,  a  staunch  Catholic;  whether  there  had 
been  a  quarrel  between  the  two  men  on  the  subject  of  religion. 
It  was  possible.  She  remembered  De  Trevignac's  strange, 
almost  mystical,  gesture  in  the  dawn,  following  his  look  of 
horror  towards  the  tent  where  her  husband  lay  sleeping. 

To-night  her  mind — her  whole  nature — felt  terribly  alive. 

She  tried  to  think  no  more  of  Mogar,  but  her  thoughts  cen- 
tred round  it,  linked  it  with  this  great  city,  whose  lights  shone 
in  the  distance  below  her,  whose  music  came  to  her  from  afar 
over  the  silence  of  the  sands. 

Mogar  and  Amara;  what  had  they  to  do  with  one  another? 
Leagues  of  desert  divided  them.  One  was  a  desolation,  the 
other  was  crowded  with  men.  What  linked  them  together  in 
her  mind  ? 

Androvsky's  fear  of  both — that  was  the  link.  She  kept  on 
thinking  of  the  glance  he  had  cast  at  the  watch-tower,  to  which 
Trevignac  had  been  even  then  approaching,  although  they  knew 
it  not.  De  Trevignac !  She  walked  faster  on  the  sand,  to  and 
fro  before  the  tent.  Why  had  he  looked  at  the  tent  in  which 
Androvsky  slept  with  horror?  Was  it  because  Androvsky  had 
denounced  the  religion  that  he  reyerenced  and  loved?  Could 
it  have  been  that?  But  then — did  Androvsky  actively  hate 
religion?  Perhaps  he  hated  it,  and  concealed  his  hatred  from 
her  because  he  knew  it  would  cause  her  pain.  Yet  she  had 
sometimes  felt  as  if  he  were  seeking,  perhaps  with  fear,  perhaps 
with  ignorance,  perhaps  with  uncertainty,  but  still  seeking  to 
draw  near  to  God.  That  was  why  she  had  been  able  to  hope 
for  him,  why  she  had  not  been  more  troubled  byhis  loss  of  the 
faith  in  which  he  had  been  brought  up,  and  to  which  she  be- 
longed heart  and  soul.  Could  she  have  been  wrong  in  her  feel- 
ing— deceived?  There  were  men  in  the  world,  she  knew,  who 


THE   JOURNEY  367 

denied  the  existence  of  a  God,  and  bitterly  ridiculed  all  faith. 
She  remembered  the  blasphemies  of  her  father.  Had  she  mar- 
ried a  man  who,  like  him,  was  lost,  who,  as  he  had,  furiously 
denied  God? 

A  cold  thrill  of  fear  came  into  her  heart.  Suddenly  she  felt 
as  if,  perhaps,  even  in  her  love,  Androvsky  had  been  a  stranger 
to  her. 

She  stood  upon  the  sand.  It  chanced  that  she  looked  towards 
the  camp  of  the  Ouled  Nails,  whose  fires  blazed  upon  the 
dunes.  While  she  looked  she  was  presently  aware  of  a  light 
that  detached  itself  from  the  blaze  of  the  fires,  and  moved  from 
them,  coming  towards  the  place  where  she  was  standing,  slowly. 
The  young  moon  only  gave  a  faint  ray  to  the  night.  This  light 
travelled  onward  through  the  dimness  like  an  earth-bound  star. 
She  watched  it  with  intentness,  as  people  watch  any  moving 
thing  when  their  minds  are  eagerly  at  work,  staring,  yet  scarcely 
conscious  that  they  see. 

The  little  light  moved  steadily  on  over  the  sands,  now 
descending  the  side  of  a  dune,  now  mounting  to  a  crest,  and 
always  coming  towards  the  place  where  Domini  was  standing. 
And  presently  this  determined  movement  towards  her  caught 
hold  of  her  mind,  drew  it  away  from  other  thoughts,  fixed  it  on 
the  light.  She  became  interested  in  it,  intent  upon  it. 

Who  was  bearing  it?  No  doubt  some  desert  man,  some 
Arab.  She  imagined  him  tall,  brown,  lithe,  half-naked,  holding 
the  lamp  in  his  muscular  fingers,  treading  on  bare  feet  silently 
over  the  deep  sand.  Why  had  he  left  the  camp?  What  was 
his  purpose? 

The  light  drew  near.  It  was  now  moving  over  the  flats  and 
seemed,  she  thought,  to  travel  more  quickly.  And  always  it 
came  straight  towards  where  she  was  standing.  A  conviction 
dawned  in  her  that  it  was  travelling  with  an  intention  of  reach- 
ing her,  that  it  was  carried  by  someone  who  was  thinking  of  her. 
But  how  could  that  be?  She  thought  of  the  light  as  a  thing 
with  a  mind  and  a  purpose,  borne  by  someone  who  backed  up 
its  purpose,  helping  it  to  do  what  it  wanted.  And  it  wanted 
to  come  to  her. 

In  Mogar!  Androvsky  had  dreaded  something  in  Mogar. 
De  Trevignac  had  come.  He  dreaded  something  in  Amara. 
This  light  came.  For  an  instant  she  fancied  that  the  light  was 
a  lamp  carried  by  De  Trevignac.  Then  she  saw  that  it  gleamed 
upon  a  long  black  robe,  the  soutane  of  a  priest. 

As  she  and  Androvsky  rode  into  Amara  she  had  asked  her- 


368  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

self  whether  his  second  dread  would  be  followed,  as  his  first 
dread  had  been,  by  an  unusual  incident.  When  she  saw  the 
soutane  of  a  priest,  black  in  the  lamplight,  moving  towards  her 
over  the  whiteness  of  the  sand,  she  said  to  herself  that  it  was 
to  be  so  followed.  This  priest  stood  in  the  place  of  De  Tre- 
vignac. 

Why  did  he  come  to  her? 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

WHEN  the  priest  drew  close  to  the  tent  Domini  saw  that  it  was 
not  he  who  carried  the  lantern,  but  a  native  soldier,  one  of  the 
Tirailleurs,  formerly  called  Turcos,  who  walked  beside  him. 
The  soldier  saluted  her,  and  the  priest  took  off  his  broad,  fluffy 
black  hat. 

"  Good-evening,  Madame,"  he  said,  speaking  French  with  the 
accent  of  Marseilles.  "  I  am  the  Aumonier  of  Amara,  and  have 
just  heard  of  your  arrival  here,  and  as  I  was  visiting  my  friends 
on  the  sand-hills  yonder,  I  thought  I  would  venture  to  call  and 
ask  whether  I  could  be  of  any  service  to  you.  The  hour  is  in- 
formal, I  know,  but  to  tell  the  truth,  Madame,  after  five  years  in 
Amara  one  does  not  know  how  to  be  formal  any  longer." 

His  eyes,  which  had  a  slightly  impudent  look,  rare  in  a  priest 
but  not  unpleasing,  twinkled  cheerfully  in  the  lamplight  as  he 
spoke,  and  his  whole  expression  betokened  a  highly  social  dis- 
position and  the  most  genuine  pleasure  at  meeting  with  a 
stranger.  While  she  looked  at  him,  and  heard  him  speak, 
Domini  laughed  at  herself  for  the  imaginations  she  had  just  been 
cherishing.  He  had  a  broad  figure,  long  arms,  large  feet  en- 
cased in  stout,  comfortable  boots.  His  face  was  burnt  brown 
by  the  sun  and  partially  concealed  by  a  heavy  black  beard, 
whiskers  and  moustache.  His  features  were  blunt  and  looked 
boyish,  though  his  age  must  have  been  about  forty.  The  nose 
was  snub,  and  accorded  with  the  expression  in  his  eyes,  which 
were  black  like  his  hair  and  full  of  twinkling  lights.  As  he 
smiled  genially  on  Domini  he  showed  two  rows  of  small, 
square  white  teeth.  His  Marseilles  accent  exactly  suited  his 
appearance,  which  was  rough  but  honest.  Domini  welcomed 
him  gladly.  Indeed,  her  reception  of  him  was  more  than 
cordial,  almost  eager.  For  she  had  been  vaguely  expecting  some 
tragic  figure,  some  personality  suggestive  of  mystery  or  sorrow, 
,as  she  thought  of  the  incidents  at  Mogar,  and  associated  the 


THE   JOURNEY  369 

moving  light  with  the  approach  of  further  strange  events.  This 
homely  figure  of  her  religion,  beaming  satisfaction  and  comfort- 
able anticipation  of  friendly  intercourse,  laid  to  rest  fears  which 
only  now,  when  she  was  conscious  of  relief,  she  knew  she  had 
been  entertaining.  She  begged  the  priest  to  come  into  the  din- 
ing-tent,  and,  taking  up  the  little  bell  which  was  on  the  table, 
went  out  into  the  sand  and  rang  it  for  Ouardi. 

He  came  at  once,  like  a  shadow  gliding  over  the  waste. 

"  Bring  us  coffee  for  two,  Ouardi,  biscuits  " — she  glanced  at 
her  visitor — "  bon-bons,  yes,  the  bon-bons  in  the  white  box,  and 
the  cigars.  And  take  the  soldier  with  you  and  entertain  him 
well.  Give  him  whatever  he  likes." 

Ouardi  went  away  with  the  soldier,  talking  frantically,  and 
Domini  returned  to  the  tent,  where  she  found  the  priest  gleam- 
ing with  joyous  anticipation.  They  sat  down  in  the  comfortable 
basket  chairs  before  the  tent  door,  through  which  they  could  see 
the  shining  of  the  city's  lights  and  hear  the  distant  sound  of  its 
throbbing  and  wailing  music. 

"  My  husband  has  gone  to  see  the  city,"  Domini  said  after 
she  had  told  the  priest  her  name  and  been  informed  that  his 
was  Max  Beret. 

"  We  only  arrived  this  evening." 

"  I  know,  Madame." 

He  beamed  on  her,  and  stroked  his  thick  beard  with  his 
broad,  sunburnt  hand.  "  Everyone  in  Amara  knows,  and  every- 
one in  the  tents.  We  know,  too,  how  many  tents  you  have,  how 
many  servants,  how  many  camels,  horses,  dogs." 

He  broke  into  a  hearty  laugh. 

"  We  know  what  you've  just  had  for  dinner!  " 

Domini  laughed  too. 

"Not  really!" 

"  Well,  I  heard  in  the  camp  that  it  was  soup  and  stewed 
mutton.  But  never  mind!  You  must  forgive  us.  We  are 
barbarians!  We  are  sand-rascals!  We  are  ruffians  of  the 
sun!" 

His  laugh  was  infectious.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
shook  with  the  mirth  his  own  remarks  had  roused. 

"  We  are  ruffians  of  the  sun !  "  he  repeated  with  gusto.  "  And 
we  must  be  forgiven  everything." 

Although  clad  in  a  soutane  he  looked,  at  that  moment,  like  a 
type  of  the  most  joyous  tolerance,  and  Domini  could  not  help 
mentally  comparing  him  with  the  priest  of  Beni-Mora.  What 
would  Father  Roubier  think  of  Father  Beret  ? 


370  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  It  is  easy  to  forgive  in  the  sun,"  Domini  said. 

The  priest  laid  his  hands  on  his  knees,  setting  his  feet  well 
apart.  She  noticed  that  his  hands  were  not  scrupulously  clean. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  "  it  is  impossible  to  be  anything  but 
lenient  in  the  sun.  That  is  my  experience.  Excuse  me,  but 
are  you  a  Catholic?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  So  much  the  better.  You  must  let  me  show  you  the 
chapel.  It  is  in  the  building  with  the  cupolas.  The  congrega- 
tion consists  of  five  on  a  full  Sunday."  His  laugh  broke  out 
again.  "I  hope  the  day  after  to-morrow  you  and  your  husband 
will  make  it  seven.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  the  sun  teaches  one  a 
lesson  of  charity.  When  I  first  came  to  live  in  Africa  in  the 
midst  of  the  sand-rascals — eh,  Madame! — I  suppose  as  a  priest 
I  ought  to  have  been  shocked  by  their  goings-on.  And  indeed 
I  tried  to  be,  I  conscientiously  did  my  best.  But  it  was  no  good. 
I  couldn't  be  shocked.  The  sunshine  drove  it  all  out  of  me.  I 
could  only  say,  '  It  is  not  for  me  to  question  le  bon  Dieu,  and 
le  bon  Dieu  has  created  these  people  and  set  them  here  in  the 
sand  to  behave  as  they  do.  What  is  my  business?  I  can't 
convert  them.  I  can't  change  their  morals.  I  must  just  be  a 
friend  to  them,  cheer  them  up  in  their  sorrows,  give  them  a  bit 
if  they're  starving,  doctor  them  a  little.  I'm  a  first-rate  hand  at 
making  an  Arab  take  a  pill  or  a  powder! — when  they  are  ill,  and 
make  them  at  home  with  the  white  marabout.'  That's  what  the 
sun  has  taught  me,  and  every  sand-rascal  and  sand-rascal's  child 
in  Amara  is  a  friend  of  mine." 

He  stretched  out  his  legs  as  if  he  wished  to  elongate  his 
satisfaction,  and  stared  Domini  full  in  the  face  with  eyes  that 
confidently,  naively,  asked  for  her  approval  of  his  doctrine  of  the 
sun.  She  could  not  help  liking  him,  though  she  felt  more  as  if 
she  were  sitting  with  a  jolly,  big,  and  rather  rowdy  boy  than 
with  a  priest. 

"  You  are  fond  of  the  Arabs  then  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Of  course  I  am,  Madame.  I  can  speak  their  language,  and 
I'm  as  much  at  home  in  their  tents,  and  more,  than  I  should  ever 
be  at  the  Vatican — with  all  respect  to  the  Holy  Father." 

He  got  up,  went  out  into  the  sand,  expectorated  noisily, 
then  returned  to  the  tent,  wiping  his  bearded  mouth  with  a  large 
red  cotton  pocket-handkerchief. 

"  Are  you  staying  here  long,  Madame?  " 

He  sat  down  again  in  his  chair,  making  it  creak  with  his 
substantial  weight. 


THE   JOURNEY  371 

"  I  don't  know.  If  my  husband  is  happy  here.  But  he 
prefers  the  solitudes,  I  tnink." 

"  Does  he?  And  yet  he's  gone  into  the  city.  Plenty  oi 
bustle  there  at  night,  I  car  tell  you.  Well,  now,  I  don't  agree 
with  your  husband.  I  know  it's  been  said  that  solitude  is  good 
for  the  sad,  but  I  think  just  the  contrary.  Ah! ' 

The  last  sonorously  ioyous  exclamation  jumped  out  of 
Father  Beret  at  the  sight  of  Ouardi,  who  at  this  moment 
entered  with  a  large  tray,  covered  with  a  coffee-pot,  cups, 
biscuits,  bonbons,  cigars,  and  a  bulging  flask  of  some  liqueur 
flanked  by  little  glasses. 

"  You  fare  generously  in  the  desert  I  see,  Madame,"  he 
exclaimed.  "  And  so  much  the  better.  What's  your  servant's 
name?  " 

Domini  told  him. 

"  Ouardi !  that  means  born  in  the  time  of  the  roses."  He 
addressed  Ouardi  in  Arabic  and  sent  him  off  into  the  darkness 
chuckling  gaily.  "  These  Arab  names  all  have  their  meanings 
— Onlagareb,  mother  of  scorpions,  Omteoni,  mother  of  eagles, 
and  so  on.  So  much  the  better!  Comforts  are  rare  here,  but 
you  carry  them  with  you.  Sugar,  if  you  please." 

Domini  put  two  lumps  into  his  cup. 

"If  you  allow  me!" 

He  added  two  more. 

"  I  never  refuse  a  good  cigar.  These  harmless  joys  are 
excellent  for  man.  They  help  his  Christianity.  They  keep 
him  from  bitterness,  harsh  judgments.  But  harshness  is  for 
northern  climes — rainy  England,  eh?  Forgive  me,  Madame. 
I  speak  in  joke.  You  come  from  England  perhaps.  It  didn't 
occur  to  me  that " 

They  both  laughed.  His  garrulity  was  irresistible  and  made 
Domini  feel  as  if  she  were  sitting  with  a  child.  Perhaps  he 
caught  her  feeling,  for  he  added: 

"  The  desert  has  made  me  an  enfant  terrible,  I  fear.  What 
have  you  there  ?  " 

His  eyes  had  been  attracted  by  the  flask  of  liqueur,  to  which 
Domini   wTas  stretching  out  her  hand  with   the  intention   of 
giving  him  some. 
."I  don't  know." 

She  leaned  forward  to  read  the  name  on  the  flask. 

"  L  o  u  a  r  i  n  e,"  she  said. 

"  Pst !  "  exclaimed  the  priest,  with  a  start. 

"  Will  you  have  some  ?     I   don't  know  whether  it's  good. 


372  THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 

I've  never  tasted  it,  or  seen  it  before.  Will  you  have 
some?" 

She  felt  so  absolutely  certain  that  he  would  say  "  Yes  "  that 
she  lifted  the  flask  to  pour  the  liqueur  into  one  of  the  little 
glasses,  but,  looking  at  him,  she  saw  that  he  hesitated. 

"After  all— why  not?  "  he  ejaculated.     "  Why  not?  " 

She  was  holding  the  flask  over  the  glass.  He  saw  that  his 
remark  surprised  her. 

"  Yes,  Madame,  thanks." 

She  poured  out  the  liqueur  and  handed  it  to  him.  He  set 
it  down  by  his  coffee-cup. 

"  The  fact  is,  Madame — but  you  know  nothing  about  this 
liqueur?  " 

"No,  nothing.     What  is  it?  " 

Her  curiosity  was  roused  by  his  hesitation,  his  words,  but  still 
more  by  a  certain  gravity  which  had  come  into  his  face. 

"  Well,  this  liqueur  comes  from  the  Trappist  monastery  of 
El-Largani." 

"  The  monks'  liqueur!  "  she  exclaimed. 

And  instantly  she  thought  of  Mogar. 

"You  do  know  then?" 

"  Ouardi  told  me  we  had  with  us  a  liqueur  made  by  some 
monks." 

"This  is  it, and  very  excellent  it  is.     I  have  tasted  it  in  Tunis." 

"  But  then  why  did  you  hesitate  to  take  it  here?  " 

He  lifted  his  glass  up  to  the  lamp.  The  light  shone  on  its 
contents,  showing  that  the  liquid  was  pale  green. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  "  the  Trappists  of  El-Largani  have  a 
fine  property.  They  grow  every  sort  of  things,  but  their  vine- 
yards are  specially  famous,  and  their  wines  bring  in  a  splendid 
revenue.  This  is  their  only  liqueur,  this  Louarine.  It,  too,  has 
brought  in  a  lot  of  money  to  the  community,  but  when  what  they 
have  in  stock  at  the  monastery  now  is  exhausted  they  will  never 
make  another  franc  by  Louarine." 

"But  why  not?" 

"  The  secret  of  its  manufacture  belonged  to  one  monk  only. 
At  his  death  he  was  to  confide  it  to  another  whom  he  had 
chosen." 

"And  he  died  suddenly  without " 

"  Madame,  he  didn't  die." 

The  gravity  had  returned  to  the  priest's  face  and  deepened 
there,  transforming  it.  He  put  the  glass  down  without  touch- 
ing it  with  his  lips. 


THE  JOURNEY  373 

"  Then— I  don't  understand." 

"  He  disappeared  from  the  monastery." 

"  Do  you  mean  he  left  it — a  Trappist  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  After  taking  the  final  vows?  " 

"  Oh,  he  had  been  a  monk  at  El-Largani  for  over  twenty 
years." 

"  How  horrible !  "  Domini  said.  She  looked  at  the  pale- 
green  liquid.  "  How  horrible !  "  she  repeated. 

"  Yes.  The  monks  would  have  kept  the  matter  a  secret, 
but  a  servant  of  the  hotellerie — who  had  taken  no  vow  of 
eternal  silence — spoke,  and — well,  I  know  it  here  in  the  '  belly 
of  the  desert.'  " 

"Horrible!" 

She  said  the  word  again,  and  as  if  she  felt  its  meaning  more 
acutely  each  time  she  spoke  it. 

"  After  twenty  years  to  go !  "  she  added  after  a  moment. 
"  And  was  there  no  reason,  no — no  excuse — no,  I  don't  mean 
excuse !  But  had  nothing  exceptional  happened  ?  " 

"  What  exceptional  thing  can  happen  in  a  Trappist  monas- 
tery? "  said  the  priest.  "  One  day  is  exactly  like  another  there, 
and  one  year  exactly  like  another." 

"Was  it  long  ago?" 

"  No,  not  very  long.  Only  some  months.  Oh,  perhaps  it 
may  be  a  year  by  now,  but  not  more.  Poor  fellow !  I  suppose 
he  was  a  man  who  didn't  know  himself,  Madame,  and  the  devil 
tempted  him." 

"  But  after  twenty  years!"  said  Domini. 

The  thing  seemed  to  her  almost  incredible. 

"  That  man  must  be  in  hell  now,"  she  added.  "  In  the  hell 
a  man  can  make  for  himself  by  his  own  act.  Oh,  here  is  my 
husband." 

Androvsky  stood  in  the  tent  door,  looking  in  upon  them  with 
startled,  scrutinising  eyes.  He  had  come  over  the  deep  sand 
without  noise.  Neither  Domini  nor  the  priest  had  heard  a 
footstep.  The  priest  got  up  from  his  chair  and  bowed  gen- 
ially. 

"  Good-evening,  Monsieur,"  he  said,  not  waiting  for  any 
introduction.  "  I  am  the  Aumonier  of  Amara,  and " 

He  paused  in  the  full  flow  of  his  talk.  Androvsky 's  eyes  had 
wandered  from  his  face  to  the  table,  upon  which  stood  the  coffee, 
the  liqueur,  and  the  other  things  brought  by  Ouardi.  It  was 
evident  even  to  the  self-centred  priest  that  his  host  was  not 


374  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

listening  to  him.  There  was  a  moment's  awkward  pause. 
Then  Domini  said: 

"  Boris,  Monsieur  1'Aumonier!  " 

She  did  not  speak  loudly,  but  with  an  intention  that  recalled 
the  mind  of  her  husband.  He  stepped  slowly  into  the  tent  and 
held  out  his  hand  in  silence  to  the  priest.  As  he  did  so  the 
lamplight  fell  full  upon  him. 

"  Boris,  are  you  ill?  *  Domini  exclaimed. 

The  priest  had  taken  Androvsky's  hand,  but  with  a  doubtful 
air.  His  cheerful  and  confident  manner  had  died  away,  and  his 
eyes,  fixed  upon  his  host,  shone  with  an  astonishment  which  was 
mingled  with  a  sort  of  boyish  glumness.  It  was  evident  that  he 
felt  that  his  presence  was  unwelcome. 

"  I  have  a  headache,"  Androvsky  said.  "  I — that  is  why  I 
returned." 

He  dropped  the  priest's  hand.  He  was  again  looking  towards 
the  table. 

"  The  sun  was  unusually  fierce  to-day,"  Domini  said.  "  Do 
you  think " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  interrupted.  "  That's  it.  I  must  have  had  a 
touch  of  the  sun." 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  head. 

"  Excuse  me,  Monsieur,"  he  said,  speaking  to  the  priest  but 
not  looking  at  him.  "  I  am  really  feeling  unwell.  Another 
day '" 

He  went  out  of  the  tent  and  disappeared  silently  into  the 
darkness.  Domini  and  the  priest  looked  after  him.  Then  the 
priest,  with  an  air  of  embarrassment,  took  up  his  hat  from  the 
table.  His  cigar  had  gone  out,  but  he  pulled  at  it  as  if  he 
thought  it  was  still  alight,  then  took  it  out  of  his  mouth  and, 
glancing  with  a  naive  regret  at  the  good  things  upon  the  table, 
his  half-finished  coffee,  the  biscuits,  the  white  box  of  bon-bons 
— said : 

"  Madame,  I  must  be  off.  I've  a  good  way  to  go,  and  it's 
getting  late.  If  you  will  allow  me " 

He  went  to  the  tent  door  and  called,  in  a  powerful  voice: 

"  Belgassem !     Belgassem !  " 

He  paused,  then  called  again: 

"Belgassem!" 

A  light  travelled  over  the  sand  from  the  farther  tents  of  the 
servants.  Then  the  priest  turned  round  to  Domini  and  shook 
her  by  the  hand. 

"  Good-night,  Madame." 


THE  JOURNEY  375 

"  I'm  very  sorry,"  she  said,  not  trying  to  detain  him.  "  You 
must  come  again.  My  husband  is  evidently  ill,  and " 

"  You  must  go  to  him.  Of  course.  Of  course.  This  sun 
is  a  blessing.  Still,  it  brings  fever  sometimes,  especially  to 
strangers.  We  sand-rascals — eh, Madame!"  he  laughed, but  the 
laugh  had  lost  its  sonorous  ring — "  we  can  stand  it.  It's  our 
friend.  But  for  travellers  sometimes  it's  a  little  bit  too  much. 
But  now,  mind,  I'm  a  bit  of  a  doctor,  and  if  to-morrow  your 
husband  is  no  better  I  might — anyhow " — he  looked  again 
longingly  at  the  bon-bons  and  the  cigars — "  if  you'll  allow  me 
I'll  call  to  know  how  he  is." 

"  Thank  you,  Monsieur." 

"  Not  at  all,  Madame,  not  at  all!  I  can  set  him  right  in  a 
minute,  if  it's  anything  to  do  with  the  sun,  in  a  minute.  Ah, 
here's  Belgassem !  " 

The  soldier  stood  like  a  statue  without,  bearing  the  lantern. 
The  priest  hesitated.  He  was  holding  the  burnt-out  cigar  in  his 
hand,  and  now  he  glanced  at  it  and  then  at  the  cigar-box.  A 
plaintive  expression  overspread  his  bronzed  and  bearded  face. 
It  became  almost  piteous.  Quickly  Domini  went  to  the  table, 
took  two  cigars  from  the  box  and  came  back. 

"  You  must  have  a  cigar  to  smoke  on  the  way." 

"  Really,  Madame,  you  are  too  good,  but — well,  I  never 
refuse  a  fine  cigar,  and  these — upon  my  word — are " 

He  struck  a  match  on  his  broad-toed  boot.  His  demeanour 
was  becoming  cheerful  again.  Domini  gave  the  other  cigar  to 
the  soldier. 

"  Good-night,  Madame.  A  demain  then,  a  demain !  I  trust 
your  husband  may  be  able  to  rest.  A  demain !  A  demain !  " 

The  light  moved  away  over  the  dunes  and  dropped  down 
towards  the  city.  Then  Domini  hurried  across  the  sand  to  the 
sleeping-tent.  As  she  went  she  was  acutely  aware  of  the  many 
distant  noises  that  rose  up  in  the  night  to  the  pale  crescent  of  the 
young  moon,  the  pulsing  of  the  tom-toms  in  the  city,  the  faint 
screaming  of  the  pipes  that  sounded  almost  like  human  beings  in 
distress,  the  passionate  barking  of  the  guard  dogs  tied  up  to  the 
tents  on  the  sand-slopes  where  the  multitudes  of  fires  gleamed. 
The  sensation  of  being  far  away,  and  close  to  the  heart  of  the 
desert,  deepened  in  her,  but  she  felt  now  that  it  was  a  savage 
heart,  that  there  was  something  terrible  in  the  remoteness.  In 
the  faint  moonlight  the  tent  cast  black  shadows  upon  the  wintry 
whiteness  of  the  sands,  that  rose  and  fell  like  waves  of  a  smooth 
but  foam-covered  sea.  And  the  shadow  of  the  sleeping-tent 


376  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

looked  the  blackest  of  them  all.  For  she  began  to  feel  as  if  there 
was  another  darkness  about  it  than  the  darkness  that  it  cast  upon 
the  sand.  Her  husband's  face  that  night  as  he  came  in  from  the 
dunes  had  been  dark  with  a  shadow  cast  surely  by  his  soul.  And 
she  did  not  know  what  it  was  in  his  soul  that  sent  forth  the 
shadow. 

"Boris!" 

She  was  at  the  door  of  the  sleeping-tent.     He  did  not  answer. 

"Boris!" 

He  came  in  from  the  farther  tent  that  he  used  as  a  dressing- 
room,  carrying  a  lit  candle  in  his  hand.  She  went  up  to  him 
with  a  movement  of  swift,  ardent  sincerity. 

"You  felt  ill  in  the  city?  Did  Batouch  let  you  come  back 
alone?" 

"  I  preferred  to  be  alone." 

He  set  down  the  candle  on  the  table,  and  moved  so  that  the 
light  of  it  did  not  fall  upon  his  face.  She  took  his  hands  in  hers 
gently.  There  was  no  response  in  his  hands.  They  remained 
in  hers  nervelessly.  They  felt  almost  like  dead  things  in  her 
hands.  But  they  were  not  cold,  but  burning  hot. 

"  You  have  fever!  "  she  said. 

She  let  one  of  his  hands  go  and  put  one  of  hers  to  his  fore- 
head. 

"  Your  forehead  is  burning,  and  your  pulses — how  they  are 
beating!  Like  hammers!  I  must " 

"  Don't  give  me  anything,  Domini !     It  would  be  useless." 

She  was  silent.  There  was  a  sound  of  hopelessness  in  his 
voice  that  frightened  her.  It  was  like  the  voice  of  a  man  reject- 
ing remedies  because  he  knew  that  he  was  stricken  with  a  mortal 
disease. 

"  Why  did  that  priest  come  here  to-night?  "  he  asked. 

They  were  both  standing  up,  but  now  he  sat  down  in  a  chair 
heavily,  taking  his  hand  from  hers/ 

"  Merely  to  pay  a  visit  of  courtesy." 

"At  night?" 

He  spoke  suspiciously.  Again  she  thought  of  Mogar,  and  of 
how,  on  his  return  from  the  dunes,  he  had  said  to  her,  "  There 
is  a  light  in  the  tower."  A  painful  sensation  of  being  sur- 
rounded with  mystery  came  upon  her.  It  was  hateful  to  her 
strong  and  frank  nature.  It  was  like  a  miasma  that  suffocated 
her  soul. 

"  Oh,  Boris,"  she  exclaimed  bluntly,  "  why  should  he  not 
come  at  night  ?  " 


THE   JOURNEY  377 

"  Is  such  a  thing  usual  ?  " 

"  But  he  was  visiting  the  tents  over  there — of  the  nomads, 
and  he  had  heard  of  our  arrival.  He  knew  it  was  informal,  but, 
as  he  said,  in  the  desert  one  forgets  formalities." 

"  And — and  did  he  ask  for  anything?  " 

"Ask?" 

"  I  saw — on  the  table — coffee  and — and  there  was  liqueur." 

"  Naturally  I  offered  him  something." 

"He  didn't  ask?" 

"But,  Boris,  how  could  he?" 

After  a  moment  of  silence  he  said : 

"  No,  of  course  not." 

He  shifted  in  his  chair,  crossed  one  leg  over  the  other,  put 
his  hands  on  the  arms  of  it,  and  continued : 

"What  did  he  talk  about ?" 

"  A  little  about  Amara." 

"  That  was  all?" 

"  He  hadn't  been  here  long  when  you  came -" 

"Oh!" 

"  But  he  told  me  one  thing  that  was  horrible,"  she  added, 
obedient  to  her  instinct  always  to  tell  the  complete  truth  to  him, 
even  about  trifles  which  had  nothing  to  do  with  their  lives  or 
their  relation  to  each  other. 

"  Horrible !  "  Androvsky  said,  uncrossing  his  legs  and  leaning 
forward  in  his  chair. 

She  sat  down  by  him.  They  both  had  their  backs  to  the 
light  and  were  in  shadow. 

"  Yes." 

"  What  was  it  about — some  crime  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no !     It  was  about  that  liqueur  you  saw  on  the  table." 

Androvsky  was  sitting  upon  a  basket  chair.  As  she  spoke  it 
creaked  under  a  violent  movement  that  he  made. 

"How  could — what  could  there  be  that  was  horrible  con- 
nected with  that?  "  he  asked,  speaking  slowly. 

"  It  was  made  by  a  monk,  a  Trappist " 

He  got  up  from  his  chair  and  went  to  the  opening  of  the 
tent. 

"  What "  she  began,  thinking  he  was  perhaps  feeling  the 

pain  in  his  head  more  severely. 

"  I  only  want  to  be  in  the  air.  It's  rather  hot  there.  Stay 
where  you  are,  Domini,  and — well,  what  else?  " 

He  stepped  out  into  the  sand,  and  stood  just  outside  the  tent 
in  its  shadow. 


378  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  It  was  invented  by  a  Trappist  monk  of  the  monastery  of 
El-Largani,  who  disappeared  from  the  monastery.  He  had 
taken  the  final  vows.  He  had  been  there  for  over  twenty 
years." 

"  He — he  disappeared — did  the  priest  say?" 


"Where?" 

"  I  don't  think — I  am  sure  he  doesn't  know.  But  what  does 
it  matter?  The  awful  thing  is  that  he  should  leave  the  monas- 
tery after  taking  the  eternal  vows — vows  made  to  God." 

After  a  moment,  during  which  neither  of  them  spoke  and 
Androvsky  stood  quite  still  in  the  sand,  she  added: 

"Poor  man!" 

Androvsky  came  a  step  towards  her,  then  paused. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that,  Domini?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  of  the  agony  he  must  be  enduring  if  he  is 
still  alive." 

"Agony?" 

"  Of  mind,  of  heart.  You — I  know,  Boris,  you  can't  feel 
with  me  on  certain  subjects — yet " 

"Yet!"  he  said. 

"  Boris  " — she  got  up  and  came  to  the  tent  door,  but 
not  out  upon  the  sand — "  I  dare  to  hope  that  some  day 
perhaps " 

She  was  silent,  looking  towards  him  with  her  brave,  steady 
eyes. 

"  Agony  of  heart  ?  "  Androvsky  said,  recurring  to  her  words. 
"  You  think — what — you  pity  that  man  then  ?  " 

"And  don't  you?" 

"  I — what  has  he  to  do  with — us?     Why  should  we ?  " 

"  I  know.  But  one  does  sometimes  pity  men  one  never  has 
seen,  never  will  see,  if  one  hears  something  frightful  about  them. 
Perhaps — don't  smile,  Boris — perhaps  it  was  seeing  that  liqueur, 
which  he  had  actually  made  in  the  monastery  when  he  was  at 
peace  with  God,  perhaps  it  was  seeing  that,  that  has  made  me 
realise — such  trifles  stir  the  imagination,  set  it  working — at  any 
rate " 

She  broke  off.  After  a  minute,  during  which  he  said  nothing, 
she  continued: 

"  I  believe  the  priest  felt  something  of  the  same  sort.  He 
could  not  drink  the  liqueur  that  man  had  made,  although  he 
intended  to." 

"But — that  might  have  been  for  a  different  reason,"  An- 


THE   JOURNEY  379 

drovsky  said  in  a  harsh  voice ;  "  priests  have  strange  ideas.  They 
often  judge  things  cruelly,  very  cruelly." 

"  Perhaps  they  do.  Yes;  I  can  imagine  that  Father  Roubier 
of  Beni-Mora  might,  though  he  is  a  good  man  and  leads  a  saintly 
life." 

"  Those  are  sometimes  the  most  cruel.  They  do  not  under- 
stand." 

"  Perhaps  not.  It  may  be  so.  But  this  priest — he's  not  like 
that." 

She  thought  of  his  genial,  bearded  face,  his  expression  when 
he  said,  "  We  are  ruffians  of  the  sun,"  including  himself  with  the 
desert  men,  his  boisterous  laugh. 

"  His  fault  might  be  the  other  way." 

"Which  way?" 

"  Too  great  a  tolerance." 

"  Can  a  man  be  too  tolerant  towards  his  fellow-man  ?  "  said 
Androvsky. 

There  was  a  strange  sound  of  emotion  in  his  deep  voice  which 
moved  her.  It  seemed  to  her — why,  she  did  not  know — to  steal 
out  of  the  depth  of  something  their  mutual  love  had  created. 

"  The  greatest  of  all  tolerance  is  God's,"  she  said.  "  I'm 
sure — quite  sure — of  that." 

Androvsky  came  in  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  tent,  took  her  in 
his  arms  with  passion,  laid  his  lips  on  hers  with  passion,  hot, 
burning  force  and  fire,  and  a  hard  tenderness  that  was  hard 
because  it  was  intense. 

"  God  will  bless  you,"  he  said.  "  God  will  bless  you.  What- 
ever life  brings  you  at  the  end  you  must — you  must  be  blessed 
by  Him." 

"  But  He  has  blessed  me,"  she  whispered,  through  tears  that 
rushed  from  her  eyes,  stirred  from  their  well-springs  by  his  sud- 
den outburst  of  love  for  her.  "  He  has  blessed  me.  He  has 
given  me  you,  your  love,  your  truth." 

Androvsky  released  her  as  abruptly  as  he  had  taken  her  in  his 
arms,  turned,  and  went  out  into  the  desert. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

TRUE  to  his  promise,  on  the  following  day  the  priest  called  to 
inquire  after  Androvsky's  health.  He  happened  to  come  just 
before  dejeuner  was  ready,  and  met  Androvsky  on  the  sand 
before  the  tent  door. 


38o  THE   GARDEN    OF   ALLAH 

"  It's  not  fever  then,  Monsieur,"  he  said,  after  they  had 
shaken  hands. 

"  No,  no,"  Androvsky  replied.  "  I  am  quite  well  this  morn- 
ing." 

The  priest  looked  at  him  closely  with  an  unembarrassed 
scrutiny. 

"  Have  you  been  long  in  the  desert,  Monsieur?  "  he  asked. 

"  Some  weeks." 

:i  The  heat  'has  tired  you.     I  know  the  look " 

"  I  assure  you,  Monsieur,  that  I  am  accustomed  to  heat.  I 
have  lived  in  North  Africa  all  my  life." 

"  Indeed.  And  yet  by  your  appearance  I  should  certainly 
suppose  that  you  needed  a  change  from  the  desert.  The  air  of 
the  Sahara  is  magnificent,  but  there  are  people " 

"  I  am  not  one  of  them,"  Androvsky  said  abruptly.  "  I  have 
never  felt  so  strong  physically  as  since  I  have  lived  in  the 
sand." 

The  priest  still  looked  at  him  closely,  but  said  nothing  fur- 
ther on  the  subject  of  health.  Indeed,  almost  immediately  his 
attention  was  distracted  by  the  apparition  of  Ouardi  bearing 
dishes  from  the  cook's  tent. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  called  at  a  very  unorthodox  time,"  he 
remarked,  looking  at  his  watch;  "but  the  fact  is  that  here 
in  Amara  we " 

"  I  hope  you  will  stay  to  dejeuner"  Androvsky  said. 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you.  If  you  are  certain  that  I  shall  not 
put  you  out." 

"  Please  stay." 

"  I  will,  then,  with  pleasure." 

He  moved  his  lips  expectantly,  as  if  only  a  sense  of  politeness 
prevented  him  from  smacking  them.  Androvsky  went  towards 
the  sleeping-tent,  where  Domini,  who  had  been  into  the  city, 
was  washing  her  hands. 

"  The  priest  has  called,"  he  said.  "  I  have  asked  him  to 
dejeuner" 

She  looked  at  him  with  frank  astonishment  in  her  dark 
eyes. 

"You— Boris!" 

"Yes,  I.     Why  not?" 

"  I  don't  know.     But  generally  you  hate  people." 

"  He  seems  a  good  sort  of  man." 

She  still  looked  at  him  with  some  surprise,  even  with  curi- 
osity. 


THE   JOURNEY  381 

"  Have  you  taken  a  fancy  to  a  priest?  "  she  asked,  smiling. 

"Why  not?  This  man  is  very  different  from  Father  Rou- 
bier,  more  human." 

"  Father  Beret  is  very  human,  I  think,"  she  answered. 

She  was  still  smiling.  It 'had  just  occurred  to  her  that  the 
priest  had  timed  his  visit  with  some  forethought. 

"  I  am  coming,"  she  added. 

A  sudden  cheerfulness  had  taken  possession  of  her.  All  the 
morning  she  had  been  feeling  grave,  even  almost  apprehensive, 
after  a  bad  night.  When  her  husband  had  abruptly  left  her 
and  gone  away  into  the  darkness  she  had  been  overtaken  by  a 
sudden  wave  of  acute  depression.  She  had  felt,  more  painfully 
than  ever  before, 'the  mental  separation  which  existed  between 
them  despite  their  deep  love,  and  a  passionate  but  almost  hopeless 
longing  had  filled  her  heart  that  in  all  things  they  might  be 
one,  riot  only  in  love  of  each  other,  but  in  love  of  God.  When 
Androvsky  had  taken  <  his  arms  from  her  she  had  seemed  to 
feel  herself  released  by  a  great  despair,  and  this  certainty — for 
as  he  vanished  into  thet  darkness  she  was  no  more  in  doubt  that 
his  love  for  her  left  room  within  his  heart  for  such  an  agony — 
had  for  a  moment  brought  her  soul  to  the  dust. .  She  had  been 
overwhelmed  by  a  sensation  that  instead  of  being  close  together 
they  were  far  apart,  almost  strangers,  and  a  great  bitterness 
had  entered'  into  her.  It  was  accompanied  by  a  desire  for 
action.  She  longed  to  follow  Androvsky,  to  lay  her  hand  on 
his  arm,  to  stop  him  in  the  sand  and  force  him  to  confide  in 
her.  For  the  first  time  the  idea  that  he  was  keeping  some- 
thing from  her,  a  sorrow,  almost  maddened  her,  even  made  her 
feel  jealous.  The  fact  that  she  divined  what  that  sorrow 
was,  or  believed  she  divined  it,  did  not  help  her  just  then.  She 
waited  a  long  while,  but  Androvsky  did  not  return,  and  at  last 
she  prayed  and  went  to  bed.  But  her  prayers  were  feeble,  dis- 
jointed, and  sleep  did  not  come  to  her,  for  her  mind  was  travel- 
ling with  this  man"  who' loved  her  and  who  yet  was  out  there 
alone  in  the  night,  who  was  deliberately  separating  himself 
from  her.  Towards  dawn,  when  he  stole  into  the  tent,  she 
was  still  awake,  but  she  did  not  speak  or  give  any  sign  of  con- 
sciousness, although  she  was  hot  with  the  fierce  desire  to  spring 
up,  to  throw  her  arms  round  him,  to  draw  his  head  down  upon 
her  heart,  and  say,  "I  have  given  myself,  body,  heart  and  soul, 
to  you.  Give  yourself  to  me;  give  me  the  thing  you  are  keep- 
ing back — your  sorrow.  Till  I  have  that  I  have  not  all  of  you, 
and  till  I  have  all  of  you  I  am  in  hell." 


382  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

It  was  a  mad  impulse.  She  resisted  it  and  lay  quite  still. 
And  when  he  lay  down  and  was  quiet  she  slept  at  length. 

Now,  as  she  heard  him  speak  in  the  sunshine  and  knew  that 
he  had  offered  hospitality  to  the  comfortable  priest  her  heart 
suddenly  felt  lighter,  she  scarcely  knew  why.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  had  been  a  little  morbid,  and  that  the  cloud  which  had 
settled  about  her  was  lifted,  revealing  the  blue. 

At  dejeuner  she  was  even  more  reassured.  Her  husband 
seemed  to  get  on  with  the  priest  better  than  she  had  ever  seen 
him  get  on  with  anybody.  He  began  by  making  an  effort  to  be 
agreeable  that  was  obvious  to  her;  but  presently  he  was  agree- 
able without  effort.  The  simple  geniality  and  lack  of  self- 
consciousness  in  Father  Beret  evidently  set  him  at  his  ease. 
Once  or  twice  she  saw  him  look  at  his  guest  with  an  earnest 
scrutiny  that  puzzled  her,  but  he  talked  far  more  than  usual 
and  with  greater  animation,  discussing  the  Arabs  and  listening 
to  the  priest's  account  of  the  curiosities  of  Jife  in  Amara.  When 
at  length  Father  Beret  rose  to  go  Androvsky  said  he  would 
accompany  him  a  little  way,  and  they  went  off  together,  evi- 
dently on  the  best  of  terms. 

She  was  delighted  and  surprised.  She  had  been  right,  then. 
It  was  time  that  Androvsky  was  subjected  to  another  influence 
than  that  of  the  unpeopled  wastes.  It  was  time  that  he  came 
into  contact  with  men  whose  minds  were  more  akin  to  his  than 
the  minds  of  the  Arabs  who  had  been  their  only  companions. 
She  began  to  imagine  him  with  her  in  civilised  places,  to  be  able 
to  imagine  him.  And  she  was  glad  they  had  come  to  Amara 
and  confirmed  in  her  resolve  to  stay  on  there.  She  even  began 
to  wish  that  the  French  officers  quartered  there — few  in  num- 
ber, some  five  or  six — would  find  them  in  the  sand,  and  that 
Androvsky  would  offer  them  hospitality.  It  occurred  to  her 
that  it  was  not  quite  wholesome  for  a  man  to  live  in  isolation 
from  his  fellow-men,  even  with  the  woman  he  loved,  and  she 
determined  that  she  would  not  be  selfish  in  her  love,  that  she 
would  think  for  Androvsky,  act  for  him,  even  against  her  own 
inclination.  Perhaps  his  idea  of  life  in  an  oasis  apart  from 
Europeans  was  one  she  ought  to  combat,  though  it  fascinated 
her.  Perhaps  it  would  be  stronger,  more  sane,  to  face  a  more 
ordinary,  less  dreamy,  life,  in  which  they  would  meet  with 
people,  in  which  they  would  inevitably  find  themselves  con- 
fronted with  duties.  She  felt  powerful  enough  in  that  moment 
to  do  anything  that  would  make  for  Androvsky's  welfare  of 
soul.  His  body  was  strong  and  at  ease.  She  thought  of  him 


THE  JOURNEY  383 

going  away  with  the  priest  in  friendly  conversation.  How 
splendid  it  would  be  if  she  could  feel  some  day  that  the  health 
of  his  soul  accorded  completely  with  that  of  his  body ! 

"  Batouch!  "  she  called  almost  gaily. 

Batouch  appeared,  languidly  smoking  a  cigarette,  and  with 
a  large  flower  tied  to  a  twig  protending  from  behind  his 
ear. 

"  Saddle  the  horses.  Monsieur  has  gone  with  the  Pers 
Beret.  I  shall  take  a  ride,  just  a  short  ride  round  the  camp 
over  there — in  at  the  city  gate,  through  the  market-place,  and 
home.  You  will  come  with  me." 

Batouch  threw  away  his  cigarette  with  energy.  Poet  though 
he  was,  all  the  Arab  blood  in  him  responded  to  the  thought  of 
a  gallop  over  the  sands.  Within  a  few  minutes  they  were  off. 
When  she  was  in  the  saddle  it  was  at  all  times  difficult  for 
Domini  to  be  sad  or  even  pensive.  She  had  a  native  passion  for 
a  good  horse,  and  riding  was  one  of  the  joys,  and  almost  the 
keenest,  of  her  life.  She  felt  powerful  when  she  had  a  spirited, 
fiery  animal  under  her,  and  the  wide  spaces  of  the  desert  sum- 
moned speed  as  they  summoned  dreams.  She  and  Batouch  went 
away  at  a  rapid  pace,  circled  round  the  Arab  cemetery,  made  a 
detour  towards  the  south,  and  then  cantered  into  the  midst 
of  the  camps  of  the  Ouled  Nails.  It  was  the  hour  of  the  siesta. 
Only  a  few  people  were  stirring,  coming  and  going  over  the 
dunes  to  and  from  the  city  on  languid  errands  for  the  women  of 
the  tents,  who  reclined  in  the  shade  of  their  brushwood  arbours 
upon  filthy  cushions  and  heaps  of  multi-coloured  rags,  smok- 
ing cigarettes,  playing  cards  with  Arab  and  negro  admirers, 
or  staring  into  vacancy  beneath  their  heavy  eyebrows  as  they 
listened  to  the  sound  of  music  played  upon  long  pipes  of  reed. 
No  dogs  barked  in  their  camp.  The  only  guardians  were  old 
women,  whose  sandy  faces  were  scored  with  innumerable 
wrinkles,  and  whose  withered  hands  drooped  under  their  loads 
of  barbaric  rings  and  bracelets.  Batouch  would  evidently  have 
liked  to  dismount  here.  Like  all  Arabs  he  was  fascinated  by 
the  sight  of  these  idols  of  the  waste,  whose  painted  faces  called 
to  the  surface  the  fluid  poetry  within  him,  but  Domini  rode  on, 
descending  towards  the  city  gate  by  which  she  had  first  entered 
Amara.  The  priest's  house  was  there  and  Androvsky  was  with 
the  priest.  She  hoped  he  had  perhaps  gone  in  to  return  the 
visit  paid  to  them.  As  she  rode  into  the  city  she  glanced  at  the 
house.  The  door  was  open  and  she  saw  the  gay  rugs  in  the 
little  hall.  She  had  a  strong  inclination  to  stop  and  ask  if  her 


384  THE  GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

husband  were  there.  He  might  mount  Batouch's  horse  and 
accompany  her  home. 

"  Batouch,"  she  said,  "  will  you  ask  if  Monsieur  Androvsky 
is  with  Pere  Beret.  I  think 

She  stopped  speaking.  She  had  just  seen  her  husband's  face 
pass  across  the  window-space  of  the  room  on  the  right-hand  side 
of  the  hall  door.  She  could  not  see  it  very  well.  The  arcade 
built  out  beyond  the  house  cast  a  deep  shade  within,  and  in  this 
shade  the  face  had  flitted  like  a  shadow.  Batouch  had  sprung 
from  his  horse.  But  the  sight  of  the  shadowy  face  had  changed 
her  mind.  She  resolved  not  to  interrupt  the  two  men.  Long 
ago  at  Beni-Mora  she  had  asked  Androvsky  to  call  upon  a  priest. 
She  remembered  the  sequel  to  that  visit.  This  time  Androvsky 
had  gone  of  his  own  will.  If  he  liked  this  priest,  if  they  became 
friends,  perhaps — she  remembered  her  vision  in  the  dancing- 
house,  her  feeling  that  when  she  drew  near  Amara  she  was 
drawing  near  to  the  heart  of  the  desert.  If  she  should 'see 
Androvsky  praying  here!  Yet  Father  Beret  hardly  seemed  a 
man  likely  to  influence  her  husband,  or  anyone  with  a  strong 
and  serious  personality.  He  was  surely  too  fond  of  the  things 
of  this  world,  too  obviously  a  lover  and  cherisher  of  the  body. 
Nevertheless,  there  was  something  attractive  in  him,  a  kindness, 
a  geniality.  In  trouble  he  would  be  sympathetic.  Certainly 
her  husband  must  have  taken  a  liking  to  him,  and  the  chances 
of  life  and  the  influences  of  destiny  were  strange  and  not  to  be 
foreseen. 

"  No,  Batouch,"  she  said.    "  We  won't  stop." 

"  But,  Madame,"  he  cried,  "  Monsieur  is  in  there.  I  saw  his 
face  at  the  window." 

"  Never  mind.  We  won't  disturb  them.  I  daresay  they 
"have  something  to  talk  about." 

They  cantered  on  towards  the  market-place.  It  was  not 
market-day,  and  the  town,  like  the  camp  of  the  Ouled  Nails, 
was  almost  deserted.  As  she  rode  up  the  hill  towards  the  place 
of  the  fountain,  however,  she  saw  two  handsomely-dressed 
Arabs,  followed  by  a  servant,  slowly '  strolling  towards  her 
from  the  doorway  of  the  Bureau  Arabe.  One,  who  was  very 
tall,  was  dressed  in  green,  and  carried  a  long  staff,  from  which 
hung  green  ribbons.  The  other  wore  a  more  ordinary  costume 
of  white,  with  a  white  burnous  and  a  turban  spangled  with 
gold. 

"  Madame!  "  said  Batouch. 

"Yes." 


THE   JOURNEY  385 

"  Do  you  see  the  Arab  dressed  in  green  ?  " 

He  spoke  in  an  almost  awestruck  voice. 

"Yes.    Who  is  he?" 

"  The  great  marabout  who  lives  at  Beni-Hassan." 

The  name  struck  upon  Domini's  ear  with  a  strange  famili- 
arity. 

"  But  that's  where  Count  Anteoni  went  when  he  rode  away 
from  Beni-Mora  that  morning." 

"  Yes,  Madame." 

"  Is  it  far  from  Amara?  " 

"  Two  hours'  ride  across  the  desert." 

"  But  then  Count  Anteoni  may  be  near  us.  After  he  left 
he  wrote  to  me  and  gave  me  his  address  at  the  marabout's 
house." 

"  If  he  is  still  with  the  marabout,  Madame." 

They  were  close  to  the  fountain  now,  and  the  marabout  and 
his  companion  were  coming  straight  towards  them. 

"  If  Madame  will  allow  me  I  will  salute  the  marabout,"  said 
Batouch. 

"  Certainly." 

He  sprang  off  his  horse  immediately,  tied  it  up  to  the  railing 
of  the  fountain,  and  went  respectfully  towards  the  approaching 
potentate  to  kiss  his  hand.  Domini  saw  the  marabout  stop  and 
Batouch  bend  down,  then  lift  himself  up  and  suddenly  move 
back  as  if  in  surprise.  The  Arab  who  was  with  the  marabout 
seemed  also  surprised.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  Batouch,  who 
took  it,  kissed  it,  then  kissed  his  own  hand,  and  turning,  pointed 
towards  Domini.  The  Arab  spoke  a  word  to  the  marabout, 
then  left  him,  and  came  rapidly  forward  to  the  fountain.  As 
he  drew  close  to  her  she  saw  a  face  browned  by  the  sun,  a  very 
small,  pointed  beard,  a  pair  of  intensely  bright  eyes  surrounded 
by  wrinkles.  These  eyes  held  her.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  knew  them,  that  she  had  often  looked  into  them  and  seen 
their  changing  expressions.  Suddenly  she  exclaimed: 

"  Count  Anteoni !  " 

"Yes,  it  is  I!" 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  clasped  hers. 

"  So  you  have  started  upon  your  desert  journey,"  he  added, 
looking  closely  at  her,  as  he  had  often  looked  in  the  garden. 

"  Yes." 

"  And  as  I  ventured  to  advise — that  last  time,  do  you  re- 
member? " 

She  recollected  his  words. 


386  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  No,"  she  replied,  and  there  was  a  warmth  of  joy,  almost 
of  pride,  in  her  voice.  "  I  am  not  alone." 

Count  Anteoni  was  standing  with  one  hand  on  her  horse's 
neck.  As  she  spoke,  his  hand  dropped  down. 

"  I  have  been  away  from  Beni-Hassan,"  he  said  slowly. 
"  The  marabout  and  I  have  been  travelling  in  the  south  and 
only  returned  yesterday.  I  have  heard  no  news  for  a  long 
time  from  Beni-Mora,  but  I  know.  You  are  Madame 
Androvsky." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered ;   "  I  am  Madame  Androvsky." 

There  was  a  silence  between  them.  In  it  she  heard  the 
dripping  water  in  the  fountain.  At  last  Count  Anteoni  spoke 
again. 

"  It  was  written,"  he  said  quietly.  "  It  was  written  in  the 
sand." 

She  thought  of  the  sand-diviner  and  was  silent.  An  oppres- 
sion of  spirit  had  suddenly  come  upon  her.  It  seemed  to  her 
connected  with  something  physical,  something  obscure,  unusual, 
such  as  she  had  never  felt  before.  It  was,  she  thought,  as  if 
her  body  at  that  moment  became  more  alive  than  it  had  ever 
been,  and  as  if  that  increase  of  life  within  her  gave  to  her  a 
peculiar  uneasiness.  She  was  startled.  She  even  felt  alarmed, 
as  at  the  faint  approach  of  something  strange,  of  something  that 
was  going  to  alter  her  life.  She  did  not  know  at  all  what  it 
was.  For  the  moment  a  sense  of  confusion  and  of  pain  beset 
her,  and  she  was  scarcely  aware  with  whom  she  was,  or  where. 
The  sensation  passed  and  she  recovered  herself  and  met  Count 
Anteoni's  eyes  quietly. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered ;  "  all  that  has  happened  to  me  here  in 
Africa  was  written  in  the  sand  and  in  fire." 

"  You  are  thinking  of  the  sun." 

"  Yes." 

"  I — where  are  you  living?  " 

"  Close  by  on  the  sand-hill  beyond  the  city  wall." 

"  Where  you  can  see  the  fires  lit  at  night  and  hear  the  sound 
of  the  music  of  Africa." 

"  Yes." 

"  As  he  said." 

"  Yes,  as  he  said." 

Again  the  overwhelming  sense  of  some  strange  and  formid- 
able approach  came  over  her,  but  this  time  she  fought  it  reso- 
lutely. 

"  Will  you  come  and  see  me?  "  she  said. 


THE  JOURNEY  387 

She  had  meant  to  say  "  us,"  but  did  not  say  it. 

"  If  you  will  allow  me." 

"When?" 

"  I — "  she  heard  the  odd,  upward  grating  in  his  voice  which 
she  remembered  so  well.  "May  I  come  now  if  you  are  riding 
to  the  tents?  " 

"  Please  do." 

"  I  will  explain  to  the  marabout  and  follow  you." 

"  But  the  way?     Shall  Batouch ?  " 

"  No,  it  is  not  necessary." 

She  rode  away.  When  she  reached  the  camp  she  found  that 
Androvsky  had  not  yet  returned,  and  she  was  glad.  She  wanted 
to  talk  to  Count  Anteoni  alone.  Within  a  few  minutes  she 
saw  him  coming  towards  the  tent.  His  beard  and  his  Arab 
dress  so  altered  him  that  at  a  short  distance  she  could  not  recog- 
nise him,  could  only  guess  that  it  was  he.  But  directly  he  was 
near,  and  she  saw  his  eyes,  she  forgot  that  he  was  altered,  and 
felt  that  she  was  with  her  kind  and  whimsical  host  of  the 
garden. 

"  My  husband  is  in  the  city,"  she  said. 

"  Yes." 

"With  the  priest." ^ 

She  saw  an  expression  of  surprise  flit  over  Count  Anteoni's 
face.  It  went  away  instantly. 

"  Pere  Beret,"  he  said.  "  He  is  a  cheerful  creature  and  very 
good  to  the  Arabs." 

They  sat  down  just  inside  the  shadow  of  the  tent  before  the 
door,  and  he  looked  out  quietly  towards  the  city. 

"  Yes,  this  is  the  place,"  he  said. 

She  knew  that  he  was  alluding  to  the  vision  of  the  sand- 
diviner,  and  said  so. 

"  Did  you  believe  at  the  time  that  what  he  said  would  come 
true?  "  she  asked. 

"  How  could  I  ?    Am  I  a  child  ?  " 

He  spoke  with  gentle  irony,  but  she  felt  he  was  playing 
with  her. 

"Cannot  a  man  believe  such  things?" 

He  did  not  answer  her,  but  said: 

"  My  fate  has  come  to  pass.  Do  you  not  care  to  know 
what  it  is?" 

"  Yes,  do  tell  me." 

She  spoke  earnestly.  She  felt  a  change  in  him,  a  great 
change  which  as  yet  she  did  not  understand  fully.  It  was  as 


388  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

if  he  had  been  a  man  in  doubt  and  was  now  a  man  no  longer 
in  doubt,  as  if  he  had  arrived  at  some  goal  and  was  more  at 
peace  with  himself  than  he  had  been. 

"  I  have  become  a  Mohammedan,"  he  said  simply. 

"A  Mohammedan!" 

She  repeated  the  words  as  a  person  repeats  words  in  surprise, 
but  her  voice  did  not  sound  surprised. 

"  You  wonder  ?  "  he  asked. 

After  a  moment  she  answered: 

"  No.  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing,  but  I  am  not  sur- 
prised. Now  you  have  told  me  it  seems  to  explain  you,  much 
that  I  noticed  in  you,  wondered  about  in  you." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily,  but  without  curiosity. 

"  I  feel  that  you  are  happy  now." 

"  Yes,  I  am  happy.  The  world  I  used  to  know,  my  world 
and  yours,  would  laugh  at  me,  would  say  that  I  was  crazy, 
that  it  was  a  whim,  that  I  wished  for  a  new  sensation.  Simply 
it  had  to  be.  For  years  I  have  been  tending  towards  it — who 
knows  why?  Who  knows  what  obscure  influences  have  been 
at  work  in  me,  whether  there  is  not,  perhaps  far  back,  some 
faint  strain  of  Arab  blood  mingled  w.  ih  the  Sicilian  blood  in 
my  veins?  I  cannot  understand  why.  What  I  can  under- 
stand is  that  at  last  I  have  fulfilled  my  destiny!  After  years 
of  unrest  I  am  suddenly  and  completely  at  peace.  It  is  a 
magical  sensation.  I  have  been  wandering  all  my  life  and 
have  come  upon  the  open  door  of  my  home." 

He  spoke  very  quietly,  but  she  heard  the  joy  in  his  voice. 

"  I  remember  you  saying,  '  I  like  to  see  men  praying  in  the 
desert.1  " 

"  Yes.  When  I  looked  at  them  I  was  longing  to  be  one  of 
them.  For  years  from  my  garden  wall  I  watched  them  with  a 
passion  of  envy,  with  bitterness,  almost  with  hatred  sometimes. 
They  had  something  I  had  not,  something  that  set  them  above 
me,  something  that  made  their  lives  plain  through  any  compli- 
cation, and  that  gave  to  death  a  meaning  like  the  meaning  at 
the  close  of  a  great  story  that  is  going  to  have  a  sequel.  They 
had  faith.  And  it  was  difficult  not  to  hate  them.  But  now  I 
am  one  of  them.  I  can  pray  in  the  desert." 

"  That  was  why  you  left  Beni-Mora." 

"  Yes.  I  had  long  been  wishing  to  become  a  Mohammedan, 
I  came  here  to  be  with  the  marabout,  to  enter  more  fully  into 
certain  questions,  to  see  if  I  had  any  lingering  doubts." 

"  And  you  have  none?  " 


THE  JOURNEY  389 

"  None." 

She  looked  at  his  bright  eyes  and  sighed,  thinking  of  hei 
husband. 

"  You  will  go  back  to  Beni-Mora?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  think  so.  I  am  inclined  to  go  farther  into  the 
desert,  farther  among  the  people  of  my  own  faith.  I  don't 
want  to  be  surrounded  by  French.  Some  day  perhaps  I  may 
return.  But  at  present  everything  draws  me  onward.  Tell 
me " — he  dropped  the  earnest  tone  in  which  he  had  been 
speaking,  and  she  heard  once  more  the  easy,  half-ironical  man 
of  the  world — "  do  you  think  me  a  half-crazy  eccentric?" 

"No!" 

"  You  look  at  me  very  gravely,  even  sadly." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  the  men  who  cannot  pray,"  she  said, 
"  even  in  the  desert." 

"  They  should  not  come  into  the  Garden  of  Allah.  Don't 
you  remember  that  day  by  the  garden  wall,  when " 

He  suddenly  checked  himself. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said  simply.  "  And  now  tell  me  about 
yourself.  You  never  wrote  that  you  were  going  to  be  mar- 
ried." 

"  I  knew  you  would  know  it  in  time — when  we  met  again." 

"  And  you  knew  we  should  meet  again  ?  " 

"Did  not  you?" 

He  nodded. 

"  In  the  heart  of  the  desert.  And  you — where  are  you  going? 
You  are  not  returning  to  civilisation  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  have  no  plans.  I  want  to  do  what  my 
husband  wishes." 

"And  he?" 

"  He  loves  the  desert.  He  has  suggested  our  buying  an  oasis 
and  setting  up  as  date  merchants.  What  do  you  think  of 
the  idea?" 

She  spoke  with  a  smile,  but  her  eyes  were  serious,  even  sad. 

"  I  cannot  judge  for  others,"  he  answered. 

When  he  got  up  to  go  he  held  her  hand  fast  for  a  moment. 

"May  I  speak  what  is  in  my  heart  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes— do." 

"  I  feel  as  if  what  I  have  told  you  to-day  about  myself,  about 
my  having  come  to  the  open  door  of  a  home  I  had  long  been 
wearily  seeking,  had  made  you  sad.  Is  it  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,"   she  answered   frankly. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  why?  " 


390  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  It  has  made  me  realise  more  sharply  than  perhaps  I  did 
before  what  must  be  the  misery  of  those  who  are  still  homeless." 

There  was  in  her  voice  a  sound  as  if  she  suppressed  a  sob. 

"  Hope  for  them,  remembering  my  many  years  of  wander- 
ing." 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"  Good-bye." 

"  Will  you  come  again  ?  " 

"You  are  here  for  long?" 

"  Some  days,  I  think." 

"  Whenever  you  ask  me  I  will  come." 

"  I  want  you  and  my  husband  to  meet  again.  I  want  that 
very  much."  She  spoke  with  a  pressure  of  eagerness. 

"  Send  for  me  and  I  will  come  at  any  hour." 

"  I  will  send — soon." 

When  he  was  gone,  Domini  sat  in  the  shadow  of  the  tent. 
From  where  she  was  she  could  see  the  Arab  cemetery  at  a  little 
distance,  a  quantity  of  stones  half  drowned  in  the  sand.  An 
old  Arab  was  wandering  there  alone,  praying  for  the  dead  in  a 
loud,  persistent  voice.  Sometimes  he  paused  by  a  grave,  bowed 
himself  in  prayer,  then  rose  and  walked  on  again.  His  voice 
was  never  silent.  The  sound  of  it  was  plaintive  and  monoto- 
nous. Domini  listened  to  it,  and  thought  of  homeless  men,  of 
those  who  had  lived  and  died  without  ever  coming  to  that  open 
door  through  which  Count  Anteoni  had  entered.  His  words 
and  the  changed  look  in  his  face  had  made  a  deep  impression 
upon  her.  She  realised  that  in  the  garden,  when  they  were 
together,  his  eyes,  even  when  they  twinkled  with  the  slightly 
ironical  humour  peculiar  to  him,  had  always  held  a  shadow. 
Now  that  shadow  was  lifted  out  of  them.  How  deep  was  the 
shadow  in  her  husband's  eyes.  How  deep  had  it  been  in  the 
eyes  of  her  father.  He  had  died  with  that  terrible  darkness 
in  his  eyes  and  in  his  soul.  If  her  husband  were  to  die  thus! 
A  terror  came  upon  her.  She  looked  out  at  the  stones  in  the 
sand  and  imagined  herself  there — as  the  old  Arab  was — pray- 
ing for  Androvsky  buried  there,  hidden  from  her  on  earth  for 
ever.  And  suddenly  she  felt,  "  I  cannot  wait,  I  must  act." 

Her  faith  was  deep  and  strong.  Nothing  could  shake  it. 
But  might  it  not  shake  the  doubt  from  another's  soul,  as  a 
great,  pure  wind  shakes  leaves  that  are  dead  from  a  tree  that 
will  blossom  with  the  spring?  Hitherto  a  sense  of  intense 
delicacy  had  prevented  her  from  ever  trying  to  draw  near 
'definitely  to  her  husband's  sadness.  But  her  interview  with 


THE  JOURNEY  391 

Count  Anteoni,  and  the  sound  of  this  voice  praying,  praying 
for  the  dead  men  in  the  sand,  stirred  her  to  an  almost  fierce 
resolution.  She  had  given  herself  to  Androvsky.  He  had 
given  himself  to  her.  They  were  one.  She  had  a  right  to 
draw  near  to  his  pain,  if  by  so  doing  there  was  a  chance  that 
she  might  bring  balm  to  it.  She  had  a  right  to  look  closer 
into  his  eyes  if  hers,  full  of  faith,  could  lift  the  shadow  from 
them. 

She  leaned  back  in  the  darkness  of  the  tent.  The  old  Arab 
had  wandered  further  on  among  the  graves.  His  voice  was 
faint  in  the  sand,  faint  and  surely  piteous,  as  if,  even  while  he 
prayed,  he  felt  that  his  prayers  were  useless,  that  the  fate 
of  the  dead  was  pronounced  beyond  recall.  Domini  listened 
to  him  no  more.  She  was  praying  for  the  living  as  she  had 
never  prayed  before,  and  her  prayer  was  the  prelude  not  to 
patience  but  to  action.  It  was  as  if  her  conversation  with 
Count  Anteoni  had  set  a  torch  to  something  in  her  soul,  some- 
thing that  gave  out  a  great  flame,  a  flame  that  could  surely 
burn  up  the  sorrow,  the  fear,  the  secret  torture  in  her  hus- 
band's soul.  All  the  strength  of  her  character  had  been  roused 
by  the  sight  of  the  peace  she  desired  for  the  man  she  loved 
enthroned  in  the  heart  of  this  other  man  who  was  only  her 
friend. 

The  voice  of  the  old  Arab  died  away  in  the  distance,  but 
before  it  died  away  Domini  had  ceased  from  hearing  it. 

She  heard  only  a  voice  within  her,  which  said  to  her,  "  If 
you  really  love  be  fearless.  Attack  this  sorrow  which  stands 
like  a  figure  of  death  between  you  and  your  husband.  Drive 
it  away.  You  have  a  weapon — faith.  Use  it." 

It  seemed  to  her  then  that  through  all  their  intercourse  she 
had  been  a  coward  in  her  love,  and  she  resolved  that  she 
would  be  a  coward  no  longer. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

DOMINI  had  said  to  herself  that  she  would  speak  to  her  hus- 
band that  night.  She  was  resolved  not  to  hesitate,  not  to  be 
influenced  from  her  purpose  by  anything.  Yet  she  knew  that 
a  great  difficulty  would  stand  in  her  way — the  difficulty  of 
Androvsky's  intense,  almost  passionate,  reserve.  This  reserve 
was  the  dominant  characteristic  in  his  nature.  She  thought 
of  it  sometimes  as  a  wall  of  fire  that  he  had  set  round  about 


392  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

the  secret  places  of  his  soul  to  protect  them  even  from  her 
eyes.  Perhaps  it  was  strange  that  she,  a  woman  of  a  singu- 
larly frank  temperament,  should  be  attracted  by  reserve  in 
another,  yet  she  knew  that  she  was  so  attracted  by  the  reserve 
of  her  husband.  Its  existence  hinted  to  her  depths  in  him 
which,  perhaps,  some  day  she  might  sound,  she  alone,  strength 
which  was  hidden  for  her  some  day  to  prove. 

Now,  alone  with  her  purpose,  she  thought  of  this  reserve. 
Would  she  be  able  to  break  it  down  with  her  love?  For  an 
instant  she  felt  as  if  she  were  about  to  enter  upon  a  contest  with 
her  husband,  but  she  did  not  coldly  tell  over  her  armoury  and 
select  weapons.  There  was  a  heat  of  purpose  within  her  that 
beckoned  her  to  the  unthinking,  to  the  reckless  way,  that  told 
her  to  be  self-reliant  and  to  trust  to  the  moment  for  the  method. 

When  Androvsky  returned  to  the  camp  it  was  towards  even- 
ing. A  lemon  light  was  falling  over  the  great  white  spaces  of 
the  sand.  Upon  their  little  round  hills  the  Arab  villages 
glowed  mysteriously.  Many  horsemen  were  riding  forth  from 
the  city  to  take  the  cool  of  the  approaching  night.  From  the 
desert  the  caravans  were  coming  in.  The  nomad  children 
played,  half-naked,  at  Cora  before  the  tents,  calling  shrilly  to 
each  other  through  the  light  silence  that  floated  airily  away  into 
the  vast  distances  that  breathed  out  the  spirit  of  a  pale  eternity. 
Despite  the  heat  there  was  an  almost  wintry  romance  in  this 
strange  land  of  white  sands  and  yellow  radiance,  an  ethereal 
melancholy  that  stole  with  the  twilight  noiselessly  towards  the 
tents. 

As  Androvsky  approached  Domini  saw  that  he  had  lost  the 
energy  which  had  delighted  her  at  dejeuner.  He  walked 
towards  her  slowly  with  his  head  bent  down.  His  face  was 
grave,  even  sad,  though  when  he  saw  her  waiting  for  him  he 
smiled. 

"  You  have  been  all  this  time  with  the  priest?  "  she  said. 

"  Nearly  all.  I  walked  for  a  little  while  in  the  city.  And 
you?" 

"  I  rode  out  and  met  a  friend." 

"  A  friend  ?  "  he  said,  as  if  startled. 

"  Yes,  from  Beni-Mora — Count  Anteoni.  He  has  been 
here  to  pay  me  a  visit." 

She  pulled  forward  a  basket-chair  for  him.  He  sank  into 
it  heavily. 

"  Count  Anteoni  here!  "  he  said  slowly.  "  What  is  he  doing 
here?" 


THE   JOURNEY  393 

"  He  is  with  the  marabout  at  Beni-Hassan.  And,  Boris, 
he  has  become  a  Mohammedan." 

He  lifted  his  head  with  a  jerk  and  stared  at  her  in  silence. 

"  You  are  surprised  ?  " 

"  A  Mohammedan — Count  Anteoni  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Do  you  know,  when  he  told  me  I  felt  almost  as  if  I 
had  been  expecting  it." 

"  But— is  he  changed  then?     Is  he " 

He  stopped.  His  voice  had  sounded  to  her  bitter,  almost 
fierce. 

"  Yes,  Boris,  he  is  changed.  Have  you  ever  seen  anyone 
who  was  lost,  and  the  same  person  walking  along  the  road 
home?  Well,  that  is  Count  Anteoni." 

They  said  no  more  for  some  minutes.  Androvsky  was  the 
first  to  speak  again. 

"You  told  him?"  he  asked. 

"About  ourselves?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  told  him." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"  He  had  expected  it.  When  we  ask  him  he  is  coming  here 
again  to  see  us  both  together." 

Androvsky  got  up  from  his  chair.  His  face  was  troubled. 
Standing  before  Domini,  he  said: 

"  Count  Anteoni  is  happy  then,  now  that  he — now  that  he 
has  joined  this  religion?  " 

"  Very  happy." 

"And  you — a  Catholic — what  do  you  think?" 

"  I  think  that,  since  that  is  his  honest  belief,  it  is  a  blessed 
thing  for  him." 

He  said  no  more,  but  went  towards  the  sleeping-tent. 

In  the  evening,  when  they  were  dining,  he  said  to  her: 

"  Domini,  to-night  I  am  going  to  leave  you  again  for  a  short 
time." 

He  saw  a  look  of  keen  regret  come  into  her  face,  and  added 
quickly : 

"  At  nine  I  have  promised  to  go  to  see  the  priest.  He — he 
is  rather  lonely  here.  He  wants  me  to  come.  Do  you  mind  ?  " 

"No,  no.     I  am  glad — very  glad.     Have  you  finished?" 

"  Quite." 

"  Let  us  take  a  rug  and  go  out  a  little  way  in  the  sand — that 
way  towards  the  cemetery.  It  is  quiet  there  at  night." 

"  Yes.     I  will  get  a  rug." 


394  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

He  went  to  fetch  it,  threw  it  over  his  arm,  and  they  set  out 
together.  She  had  meant  the  Arab  cemetery,  but  when  they 
reached  it  they  found  two  or  three  nomads  wandering  there. 

"  Let  us  go  on,"  she  said. 

They  went  on,  and  came  to  the  French  cemetery,  which  was 
surrounded  by  a  rough  hedge  of  brushwood,  in  which  there 
were  gaps  here  and  there.  Through  one  of  these  gaps  they 
entered  it,  spread  out  the  rug,  and  lay  down  on  the  sand.  The 
night  was  still  and  silence  brooded  here.  Faintly  they  saw  the 
graves  of  the  exiles  who  had  died  here  and  been  given  to 
the  sand,  where  in  summer  vipers  glided  to  and  fro,  and  the 
pariah  dogs  wandered  stealthily,  seeking  food  to  still  the  desires 
in  their  starving  bodies.  They  were  mostly  very  simple,  but 
close  to  Domini  and  Androvsky  was  one  of  white  marble,  in 
the  form  of  a  broken  column,  hung  with  wreaths  of  everlasting 
flowers,  and  engraved  with  these  words: 

ICI  REPOSE 

JEAN  BAPTISTE  FABRIANI 
Priez  pour  lui. 

When  they  lay  down  they  both  looked  at  this  grave,  as  if 
moved  by  a  simultaneous  impulse,  and  read  the  words. 

"  Priez  pour  lui !  "  Domini  said  in  a  low  voice. 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  took  hold  of  her  husband's,  and 
pressed  it  down  on  the  sand. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  first  night,  Boris,"  she  said,  "  at 
Arba,  when  you  took  my  hand  in  yours  and  laid  it  against  the 
desert  as  against  a  heart?  " 

"  Yes,  Domini,  I  remember." 

"  That  night  we  were  one,  weren't  we?  " 

11  Yes,  Domini." 

"  Were  we  " — she  was  almost  whispering  in  the  night — 
"  were  we  truly  one?  " 

"Why  do  you — truly  one,  you  say?" 

"  Yes — one  in  soul  ?  That  is  the  great  union,  greater  than 
the  union  of  our  bodies.  Were  we  one  in  soul?  Are  we 
now?" 

"  Domini,  why  do  you  ask  me  such  questions?  Do  you 
doubt  my  love  ?  " 

"  No.     But  I  do  ask  you.     Won't  you  answer  me?  " 

He  was  silent.     His  hand  lay  in  hers,  but  did  not  press  it. 


THE   JOURNEY  395 

"  Boris  " — she  spoke  the  cruel  words  very  quietly, — "  we 
are  not  truly  one  in  soul.  We  have  never  been.  I  know  that." 

He  said  nothing. 

"  Shall  we  ever  be?  Think — if  one  of  us  were  to  die,  and 
the  other — the  one  who  was  left — were  left  with  the  knowledge 
that  in  our  love,  even  ours,  there  had  always  been  separation — 
could  you  bear  that?  Could  I  bear  it?" 

«  Domini " 

"  Yes." 

"  Why  do  you  speak  like  this?  We  are  one.  You  have  all 
my  love.  You  are  everything  to  me." 

"  And  yet  you  are  sad,  and  you  try  to  hide  your  sadness,  your 
misery,  from  me.  Can  you  not  give  it  me?  I  want  it — more 
than  I  want  anything  on  earth.  I  want  it,  I  must  have  it,  and 
I  dare  to  ask  for  it  because  I  know  how  deeply  you  love  me  and 
that  you  could  never  love  another." 

"  I  never  have  loved  another,"  he  said. 

"  I  was  the  very  first." 

"  The  very  first.  When  we  married,  although  I  was  a  man  I 
was  as  you  were." 

She  bent  down  her  head  and  laid  her  lips  on  his  hand  that 
was  in  hers. 

"  Then  make  our  union  perfect,  as  no  other  union  on  earth 
has  ever  been.  Give  me  your  sorrow,  Boris.  I  know  what 
it  is." 

"  How  can — you  cannot  know,"  he  said  in  a  broken  voice. 

"  Yes.  Love  is  a  diviner,  the  only  true  diviner.  I  told  you 
once  what  it  was,  but  I  want  you  to  tell  me.  Nothing  that 
we  take  is  beautiful  to  us,  only  what  we  are  given." 

"  I  cannot,"  he  said. 

He  tried  to  take  his  hand  from  hers,  but  she  held  it  fast. 
And  she  felt  as  if  she  were  holding  the  wall  of  fire  with  which 
he  surrounded  the  secret  places  of  his  soul. 

"  To-day,  Boris,  when  I  talked  to  Count  Anteoni,  I  felt  that 
I  had  been  a  coward  with  you.  I  had  seen  you  suffer  and  I 
had  not  dared  to  draw  near  to  your  suffering.  I  have  been 
afraid  of  you.  Think  of  that." 

"  No." 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  afraid  of  you,  of  your  reserve.  When 
you  withdrew  from  me  I  never  followed  you.  If  I  had,  per- 
haps I  could  have  done  something  for  you." 

"  Domini,  do  not  speak  like  this.     Our  love  is  happy.    Leave 


396  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  I  can't.  I  will  not.  Boris,  Count  Anteoni  has  found  a 
home.  But  you  are  wandering.  I  can't  bear  that,  I  can't  bear 
it.  It  is  as  if  I  were  sitting  in  the  house,  warm,  safe,  and  you 
were  out  in  the  storm.  It  tortures  me.  It  almost  makes  me 
hate  my  own  safety." 

Androvsky  shivered.  He  took  his  hand  forcibly  from 
Domini's. 

"  I  have  almost  hated  it,  too,"  he  said  passionately.  "  I 
have  hated  it.  I'm  a — I'm " 

His  voice  failed.  He  bent  forward  and  took  Domini's  face 
betweeri  his  hands. 

"  And  yet  there  are  times  when  I  can  bless  what  I  have  hated. 
I  do  bless  it  now.  I — I  love  your  safety.  You — at  least  you 
are  safe." 

"  You  must  share  it.     I  will  make  you  share  it." 

"  You  cannot." 

"  I  can.  I  shall.  I  feel  that  we  shall  be  together  in  soul, 
and  perhaps  to-night,  perhaps  even  to-night." 

Androvsky  looked  profoundly  agitated.  His  hands  dropped 
down. 

"  I  must  go,"  he  said.     "  I  must  go  to  the  priest." 

He  got  up  from  the  sand. 

"  Come  to  'the  tent,  Domini." 

She  rose  to  her  feet. 

"  When  you  come  back,"  she  said,  "  I  shall  be  waiting  for 
you,  Boris." 

He  looked  at  her.  There  was  in  his  eyes  a  piercing  wisjful- 
ness.  He  opened  his  lips.  At  that  moment  Domini  felt  that 
he  was  on  the  point  of  telling  her  all  that  she  longed  to  know. 
But  the  look  faded.  The  lips  closed.  He  took  her  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  her  almost  desperately. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said.     "  I'll  keep  your  love— I'll  keep  it." 

"  You  could  never  lose  it." 

"  I  might." 

"  Never." 

"  If  I  believed  that." 

"Boris!" 

Suddenly  burning  tears  rusheH  from  her  eyes. 

"Don't  ever  say  a  thing  like  that  to  me  again!"  she  said 
with  passion. 

She  pointed  to  the  grave  close  to  them. 

"  If  you  were  there,"  she  said,  "  and  I  was  living,  and  yo.u 
had  died  before — before  you  had  told  me-— I  believe — God  for- 


THE  JOURNEY  397 

give  me,  but  I  do  believe  that  if,  when  you  died,  I  were  taken 
to  heaven  I  should  find  my  hell  there." 

She  looked  through  her  tears  at  the  words :  "  Priez  pour 
lui." 

"  To  pray  for  the  dead,"  she  whispered,  as  if  to  herself. 
"  To  pray  for  my  dead — I  could  not  do  it — I  could  not.  Boris, 
if  you  love  me  you  must  trust  me,  you  must  give  me  your 
sorrow." 

The  night  drew  on.  Androvsky  had  gone  to  the  priest. 
Domini  was  alone,  sitting  before  the  tent  waiting  for  his  return. 
She  had  told  Batouch  and  Ouardi  that  she  wanted  nothing 
more,  that  no  one  was  to  come  to  the  tent  again  that  night. 
The  young  moon  was  rising  over  the  city,  but  its  light  as  yet 
was  faint.  It  fell  upon  the  cupolas  of  the  Bureau  Arabe,  the 
towers  of  the  mosque  and  the  white  sands,  whose  whiteness 
it  seemed  to  emphasise,  making  them  pale  as  the  face  of  one 
terror-stricken.  The  city  wall  cast  a  deep  shadow  over  the 
moat  of  sand  in  which,  wrapped  in  filthy  rags,  lay  nomads 
sleeping.  Upon  the  sand-hills  the  camps  were  alive  with 
movement.  Fires  blazed  and  smoke  ascended  before  the  tents 
that  made  patches  of  blackness  upon  the  waste.  Round  the 
fires  were  seated  groups  of  men  devouring  cous-cous  and  the 
red  soup  beloved  of  the  nomad.  Behind  them  circled  the  dogs 
with  quivering  nostrils.  Squadrons  of  camels  lay  crouched 
in  the  sand,  resting  after  their  journeys.  And  everywhere, 
from  the  city  and  from  the  waste,  rose  distant  sounds  of  music, 
thin,  aerial  flutings  like  voices  of  the  night  winds,  acrid  cries 
from  the  pipes,  and  the  far-off  rolling  of  the  African  drums 
that  are  the  foundation  of  every  desert  symphony. 

Although  she  was  now  accustomed  to  the  music  of  Africa, 
Domini  could  never  hear  it  without  feeling  the  barbarity  of  the 
land  from  which  it  rose,  the  wildness  of  the  people  who  made 
and  who  loved  it.  Always  it  suggested  to  her  an  infinite  re- 
moteness, as  if  it  were  music  sounding  at  the  end  of  the  world, 
full  of  half-defined  meanings,  melancholy  yet  fierce  passion, 
longings  that,  momentarily  satisfied,  continually  renewed  them- 
selves, griefs  that  were  hidden  behind  thin  veils  like  the  women 
of  the  East,  but  that  peered  out  with  expressive  eyes,  hinting 
their  story  and  desiring  assuagement.  And  to-night  the  mean- 
ing of  the  music  seemed  deeper  than  it  had  been  before.  She 
thought  of  it  as  an  outside  echo  of  the  voices  murmuring  in 
her  mind  and  heart,  and  the  voices  murmuring  in  the  mind 
and  heart  of  Androvsky,  broken  voices  some  of  them,  but  some 


398  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

strong,  fierce,  tense  and  alive  with  meaning.  And  as  she  sat 
there  alone  she  thought  this  unity  of  music  drew  her  closer  to 
the  desert  than  she  had  ever  been  before,  and  drew  Androvsky 
with  her,  despite  his  great  reserve.  In  the  heart  of  the  desert 
he  would  surely  let  her  see  at  last  fully  into  his  heart.  When 
he  came  back  in  the  night  from  the  priest  he  would  speak.  She 
was  waiting  for  that. 

The  moon  was  mounting.  Its  light  grew  stronger.  She 
looked  across  the  sands  and  saw  fires  in  the  city,  and  suddenly 
she  said  to  herself,  "  This  is  the  vision  of  the  sand-diviner 
realised  in  my  life.  He  saw  me  as  I  am  now,  in  this  place." 
And  she  remembered  the  scene  in  the  garden,  the  crouching 
figure,  the  extended  arms,  the  thin  fingers  tracing  swift  pat- 
terns in  the  sand,  the  murmuring  voice. 

To-night  she  felt  deeply  expectant,  but  almost  sad,  encom- 
passed by  the  mystery  that  hangs  in  clouds  about  human  life 
and  human  relations.  What  could  be  that  great  joy  of  which 
the  Diviner  had  spoken?  A  woman's  great  joy  that  starred  the 
desert  with  flowers  and  made  the  dry  places  run  with  sweet 
waters.  What  could  it  be? 

Suddenly  she  felt  again  the  oppression  of  spirit  she  had  been 
momentarily  conscious  of  in  the  afternoon.  It  was  like  a  load 
descending  upon  her,  and,  almost  instantly,  communicated  itself 
to  her  body.  She  was  conscious  of  a  sensation  of  unusual 
weariness,  uneasiness,  even  dread,  then  again  of  an  intensity  of 
life  that  startled  her.  This  intensity  remained,  grew  in  her. 
It  was  as  if  the  principle  of  life,  like  a  fluid,  were  being  poured 
into  her  out  of  the  vials  of  God,  as  if  the  little  cup  that  was 
all  she  had  were  too  small  to  contain  the  precious  liquid.  That 
seemed  to  her  to  be  the  cause  of  the  pain  of  which  she  was  con- 
scious. She  was  being  given  more  than  she  felt  herself  capable 
of  possessing.  She  got  up  from  her  chair,  unable  to  remain 
still.  The  movement,  slight  though  it  was,  seemed  to  remove 
a  veil  of  darkness  that  had  hung  over  her  and  to  let  in  upon 
her  a  flood  of  light.  She  caught  hold  of  the  canvas  of  the  tent. 
For  a  moment  she  felt  weak  as  a  child,  then  strong  as  an  Ama- 
zon. And  the  sense  of  strength  remained,  grew.  She  walked 
out  upon  the  sand  in  the  direction  by  which  Androvsky  would 
return.  The  fires  in  the  city  and  the  camps  were  to  her  as 
illuminations  for  a  festival.  The  music  was  the  music  of  a 
great  rejoicing.  The  vast  expanse  of  the  desert,  wintry  white 
under  the  moon,  dotted  with  the  fires  of  the  nomads,  blossomed 
as  the  rose.  After  a  few  moments  she  stopped.  She  was  on 


THE  JOURNEY  399 

the  crest  of  a  sand-bank,  and  could  see  below  her  the  faint 
track  in  the  sand  which  wound  to  the  city  gate.  By  this  track 
Androvsky  would  surely  return.  From  a  long  distance  she 
would  be  able  to  see  him,  a  moving  darkness  upon  the  white. 
She  was  near  to  the  city  now,  and  could  hear  voices  coming 
to  her  from  behind  its  rugged  walls,  voices  of  men  singing,  and 
calling  one  to  another,  the  twang  of  plucked  instruments,  the 
click  of  negroes'  castanets.  The  city  was  full  of  joy  as  the 
desert  was  full  of  joy.  The  glory  of  life  rushed  upon  her 
like  a  flood  of  gold,  that  gold  of  the  sun  in  which  thousands 
of  tiny  things  are  dancing.  And  she  was  given  the  power  of 
giving  life,  of  adding  to  the  sum  of  glory.  She  looked  out  over 
the  sands  and  saw  a  moving  blot  upon  them  coming  slowly 
towards  her,  very  slowly.  It  was  impossible  at  this  distance 
to  see  who  it  was,  but  she  felt  that  it  was  her  husband.  For 
a  moment  she  thought  of  going  down  to  meet  him,  but  she  did 
not  move.  The  new  knowledge  that  had  come  to  her  made 
her,  just  then,  feel  shy  even  of  him,  as  if  he  must  come  to  her, 
as  if  she  could  make  no  advance  towards  him. 

As  the  blackness  upon  the  sand  drew  nearer  she  saw  that  it 
was  a  man  walking  heavily.  The  man  had  her  husband's  gait. 
When  she  saw  that  she  turned.  She  had  resolved  to  meet  him 
at  the  tent  door,  to  tell  him  what  she  had  to  tell  him  at  the 
threshold  of  their  wandering  home.  Her  sense  of  shyness  died 
when  she  was  at  the  tent  door.  She  only  felt  now  her  oneness 
with  her  husband,  and  that  to-night  their  unity  was  to  be  made 
more  perfect.  If  it  could  be  made  quite  perfect!  If  he  would 
speak  too!  Then  nothing  more  would  be  wanting.  At  last 
every  veil  would  have  dropped  from  between  them,  and  as  they 
had  long  been  one  flesh  they  would  be  one  in  spirit. 

She  waited  in  the  tent  door. 

After  what  seemed  a  long  time  she  saw  Androvsky  coming 
across  the  moonlit  sand.  He  was  walking  very  slowly,  as  if 
wearied  out,  with  his  head  drooping.  He  did  not  appear  to  see 
her  till  he  was  quite  close  to  the  tent.  Then  he  stopped  and 
gazed  at  her.  The  moon — she  thought  it  must  be  the  moon — 
made  his  face  look  strange,  like  a  dying  man's  face.  In  this 
white  face  the  eyes  glittered  feverishly. 

"Boris!"  she  said. 

"Domini!" 

"  Come  here,  close  to  me.  I  have  something  to  tell  you — • 
something  wonderful." 

He  came  quite  up  to  her. 


400  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  Domini,"  he  said,  as  if  he  had  not  heard  her.  "  Domini,  I 
— I've  been  to  the  priest  to-night.  I  meant  to  confess  to  him." 

"  To  confess!  "  she  said. 

"  This  afternoon  I  asked  him  to  hear  my  confession,  but  to- 
night I  could  not  make  it.  I  can  only  make  it  to  you, 
Domini — only  to  you.  Do  you  hear,  Domini  ?  Do  you  hear  ?  " 

Something  in  his  face  and  in  his  voice  terrified  her  heart. 
Now  she  felt  as  if  she  would  stop  him  from  speaking  if  she 
dared,  but  that  she  did  not  dare.  His  spirit  was  beyond  domi- 
nation. He  would  do  what  he  meant  to  do  regardless  of  her — 
of  anyone. 

"What  is  it,  Boris?"  she  whispered.  "Tell  me.  Perhaps 
I  can  understand  best  because  I  love  best." 

He  put  his  arms  round  her  and  kissed  her,  as  a  man  kisses 
the  woman  he  loves  when  he  knows  it  may  be  for  the  last  time, 
long  and  hard,  with  a  desperation  of  love  that  feels  frustrated 
by  the  very  lips  it  is  touching.  At  last  he  took  his  lips  from 
hers. 

"  Domini,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  steady  and  clear,  almost 
hard,  "  you  want  to  know  what  it  is  that  makes  me  unhappy 
even  in  our  love — desperately  unhappy.  It  is  this.  I  believe 
in  God,  I  love  God,  and  I  have  insulted  Him.  I.  have  tried  to 
forget  God,  to  deny  Him,  to  put  human  love  higher  than  love 
for  Him.  But  always  I  am  haunted  by  the  thought  of  God, 
and  that  thought  makes  me  despair.  Once,  when  I  was*  young, 
I  gave  myself  to  God  solemnly.  I  have  broken  the  vows  I 
made.  I  have — I  have " 

The  hardness  went  out  of  his  voice.  He  broke  down  for  a 
moment  and  was  silent. 

"  You  gave  yourself  to  God,"  she  said.     "  How?  " 

He  tried  to  meet  her  questioning  eyes,  but  could  not. 

"  I— I  gave  myself  to  God  as  a  monk,"  he  answered  after  a 
pause. 

As  he  spoke  Domini  saw  before  her  in  the  •  moonlight  De 
Trevignac.  He  cast  a  glance  of  horror  at  the  .tent,  bent  over 
her,  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross,  and  vanished.  In  his  place 
stood  Father  Roubier,  his  eyes  shining,  his  hand  upraised,  warn- 
ing her  against  Androvsky.  Then  he,  too,  vanished,  and  she 
seemed  to  see  Count  Anteoni  dressed  as  an  Arab  and  muttering 
words  of  the  Koran. 

"Domini!" 

"  Domini,  did  you  hear  me?     Domini!    Domini!  " 

She  felt  his  hands  on  her  wrists. 


THE  JOURNEY  401 

"  You  are  the  Trappist !  "  she  said  quietly,  "  of  whom  the 
priest  told  me.  You  are  the  monk  from  the  Monastery  of  El- 
Largani  who  disappeared  after  twenty  years." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  am  he." 

"  What  made  you  tell  me  ?     What  made  you  tell  me  ?  " 

There  was  agony  now  in  her  voice. 

"  You  asked  me  to  speak,  but  it  was  not  that.  Do  you 
remember  last  night  when  I  said  that  God  must  bless  you? 
You  answered,  '  He  has  blessed  me.  He  has  given  me  you,  your 
love,  your  truth.'  It  is  that  which  makes  me  speak.  You  have 
had  my  love,  not  my  truth.  Now  take  my  truth.  I've  kept  it 
from  you.  Now  I'll  give  it  you.  It's  black,  but  I'll  give  it  you. 
Domini !  Domini !  Hate  me  to-night,  but  in  your  hatred  believe 
that  I  never  loved  you  as  I  love  you  now." 

"  Give  me  your  truth !  "  she  said. 


BOOK  V 

THE  REVELATION 
CHAPTER  XXVI 

THEY  remained  standing  at  the  tent  door,  with  the 
growing  moonlight  about  them.     The  camp  was 
hushed  in  sleep,  but  sounds  of  music  still  came  to 
them  from  the  city  below  them,  and  fainter  music 
from  the  tents  of  the  Ouled  Nails  on  the  sand- 
hill to  the  south.    After  Domini  had  spoken  Androvsky  moved  a 
step  towards  her,  looked  at  her,  then  moved  back  and  dropped 
his  eyes.     If  he  had  gone  on  looking  at  her  he  knew  he  could 
not  have  begun  to  speak. 

"  Domini,"  he  said,  "  Pm  not  going  to  try  and  excuse  myself 
for  what  I  have  done.  Pm  not  going  to  say  to  you  what  I 
daren't  say  to  God — '  Forgive  me.'  How  can  such  a  thing  be 
forgiven?  That's  part  of  the  torture  I've  been  enduring,  the 
knowledge  of  the  unforgivable  nature  of  my  act.  It  can  never 
be  wiped  out.  It's  black  on  my  judgment  book  for  ever.  But  I 
wonder  if  you  can  understand — oh,  I  want  you  to  understand, 
Domini,  what  has  made  the  thing  I  am,  a  renegade,  a  breaker  of 
oaths,  a  liar  to  God  and  you.  It  was  the  passion  of  life  that 
burst  up  in  me  after  years  of  tranquillity.  It  was  the  waking  of 
my  nature  after  years  of  sleep.  And  you — you  do  understand 
the  passion  of  life  that's  in  some  of  us  like  a  monster  that  must 
rule,  must  have  its  way.  Even  you  in  your  purity  and  goodness 
— you  have  it,  that  desperate  wish  to  live  really  and  fully,  as  we 
have  lived,  Domini,  together.  For  we  have  lived  out  in  the 
desert.  We  lived  that  night  at  Arba  when  we  sat  and  watched 
the  fire  and  I  held  your  hand  against  the  earth.  We  lived  then. 
Even  now,  when  I  think  of  that  night,  I  can  hardly  be  sorry  for 
what  I've  done,  for  what  I  am." 

He  looked  up  at  her  now  and  saw  that  her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
him.  She  stood  motionless,  with  her  hands  joined  in  front  of 

402 


THE   REVELATION  403 

her.  Her  attitude  was  calm  and  her  face  was  untortured.  He 
could  not  read  any  thought  of  hers,  any  feeling  that  was  in  her 
heart. 

"  You  must  understand,"  he  said  almost  violently.  "  You 
must  understand  or  I .  My  father,  I  told  you,  was  a  Rus- 
sian. He  was  brought  up  in  the  Greek  Church,  but  became  a 
Freethinker  when  he  was  still  a  young  man.  My  mother  was  an 
Englishwoman  and  an  ardent  Catholic.  She  and  my  father  were 
devoted  to  each  other  in  spite  of  the  difference  in  their  views. 
Perhaps  the  chief  effect  my  father's  lack  of  belief  had  upon  my 
mother  was  to  make  her  own  belief  more  steadfastz  more  ardent. 
I  think  disbelief  acts  often  as  a  fan  to  the  faith  of  women,  makes 
the  flame  burn  more  brightly  than  it  did  before.  My  mother 
tried  to  believe  for  herself  and  for  my  father  too,  and  I  could 
almost  think  that  she  succeeded.  He  died  long  before  she  did, 
and  he  died  without  changing  his  views.  On  his  death-bed  he 
told  my  mother  that  he  was  sure  there  was  no  other  life,  that  he 
was  going  to  the  dust.  That  made  the  agony  of  his  farewell. 
The  certainty  on  his  part  that  he  and  my  mother  were  parting 
for  ever.  I  was  a  little  boy  at  the  time,  but  I  remember  that, 
when  he  was  dead,  my  mother  said  to  me,  '  Boris,  pray  for  your 
father  every  day.  He  is  still  alive.'  She  said  nothing  more,  but 
I  ran  upstairs  crying,  fell  upon  my  knees  and  prayed — trying  to 
think  where  my  father  was  and  what  he  could  be  looking  like. 
And  in  that  prayer  for  my  father,  which  was  also  an  act  of  obe- 
dience to  my  mother,  I  think  I  took  the  first  step  towards  the 
monastic  life.  For  I  remember  that  then,  for  the  first  time,  I 
was  conscious  of  a  great  sense  of  responsibility.  My  mother's 
command  made  me  say  to  myself,  '  Then  perhaps  my  prayer  can 
do  something  in  heaven.  Perhaps  a  prayer  from  me  can  make 
God  wish  to  do  something  He  had  not  wished  to  do  before.' 
That  was  a  tremendous  thought!  It  excited  me  terribly.  I 
remember  my  cheeks  burned  as  I  prayed,  and  that  I  was  hot  all 
over  as  if  I  had  been  running  in  the  sun.  From  that  day  my 
mother  and  I  seemed  to  be  much  nearer  together  than  we  had 
ever  been  before.  I  had  a  twin  brother  to  whom  I  was  devoted, 
and  who  was  devoted  to  me.  But  he  took  after  my  father. 
Religious  things,  ceremonies,  church  music,  processions — even 
the  outside  attractions  of  the  Catholic  Church,  which  please  and 
stimulate  emotional  people  who  have  little  faith — never  meant 
much  to  him.  All  his  attention  was  firmly  fixed  upon  the  life 
of  the  present.  He  was  good  to  my  mother  and  loved  her  de- 
votedly, as  he  loved  me,  but  he  never  pretended  to  be  what  he 


4o4  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

was   not.     And   he   was   never   a   Catholic.      He   was   never 
anything. 

"  My  father  had  originally  come  to  Africa  for  his  health, 
which  needed  a  warm  climate.  He  had  some  money  and  bought 
large  tracts  of  land  suitable  for  vineyards.  Indeed,  he  sunk 
nearly  his  whole  fortune  in  land.  I  told  you,  Domini,  that  the 
vines  were  devoured  by  the  phylloxera.  Most  of  the  money  was 
lost.  When  my  father  died  we  were  left  very  poor.  We  lived 
quietly  in  a  little  village — I  told  you  its  name,  I  told  you  that 
part  of  my  life,  all  I  dared  tell,  Domini — but  now — why  did  I 
enter  the  monastery  ?  I  was  very  young  when  I  became  a  novice, 
just  seventeen.  You  are  thinking,  Domini,  I  know,  that  I  was 
too  young  to  know  what  I  was  doing,  that  I  had  no  vocation, 
that  I  was  unfitted  for  the  monastic  life.  It  seems  so.  The 
whole  world  would  think  so.  And  yet — how  am  I  to  tell  you  ? 
Even  now  I  feel  that  then  I  had  the  vocation,  that  I  was  fitted 
to  enter  the  monastery,  that  I  ought  to  have  made  a  faithful  and 
devoted  monk.  My  mother  wished  the  life  for  me,  but  it  was 
not  only  that.  I  wished  it  for  myself  then.  With  my  whole 
heart  I  wished  it.  I  knew  nothing  of  the  world.  My  youth 
had  been  one  of  absolute  purity.  And  I  did  not  feel  longings 
after  the  unknown.  My  mother's  influence  upon  me  was  strong ; 
but  she  did  not  force  me  into  anything.  Perhaps  my  love  for 
her  led  me  more  than  I  knew,  brought  me  to  the  monastery 
door.  The  passion  of  her  life,  the  human  passion,  had  been  my 
father.  After  he  was  dead  the  passion  of  her  life  was  prayer 
for  him.  My  love  for  her  made  me  share  that  passion,  and  the 
sharing  of  that  passion  eventually  led  me  to  become  a  monk.  I 
became  as  a  child,  a  devotee  of  prayer.  Oh!  Domini — think — 
I  loved  prayer — I  loved  it " 

His  voice  broke.  When  he  stopped  speaking  Domini  was 
again  conscious  of  the  music  in  the  city.  She  remembered  that 
earlier  in  the  night  she  had  thought  of  it  as  the  music  of  a  great 
festival. 

"  I  resolved  to  enter  the  life  of  prayer,  the  most  perfect  life  of 
prayer.  I  resolved  to  become  a  '  religious.'  It  seemed  to  me 
that  by  so  doing  I  should  be  proving  in  the  finest  way  my  love 
for  my  mother.  I  should  be,  in  the  strongest  way,  helping  her. 
Her  life  was  prayer  for  my  dead  father  and  love  for  her  children. 
By  devoting  myself  to  the  life  of  prayer  I  should  show  to  her 
that  I  was  as  she  was,  as  she  had  made  me,  true  son  of  her 
womb.  Can  you  understand  ?  I  had  a  passion  for  my  mother, 
Domini — I  had  a  passion.  My  brother  tried  to  dissuade  me 


THE  REVELATION  405 

from  the  monastic  life.  He  himself  was  going  into  business  in 
Tunis.  He  wanted  me  to  join  him.  But  I  was  firm.  I  felt 
driven  towards  the  cloister  then  as  other  men  often  feel  driven 
towards  the  vicious  life.  The  inclination  was  irresistible.  I 
yielded  to  it.  I  had  to  bid  good-bye  to  my  mother.  I  told  you 
— she  was  the  passion  of  my  life.  And  yet  I  hardly  felt  sad  at 
parting  from  her.  Perhaps  that  will  show  you  how  I  was  then. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  we  should  be  even  closer  together  when  I 
wore  the  monk's  habit.  I  was  in  haste  to  put  it  on.  I  went  to 
the  monastery  of  El-Largani  and  entered  it  as  a  novice  of  the 
Trappistine  order.  I  thought  in  the  great  silence  of  the  Trap- 
pists  there  would  be  more  room  for  prayer.  When  I  left  my 
home  and  went  to  El-Largani  I  took  with  me  one  treasure  only. 
Domini,  it  was  the  little  wooden  crucifix  you  pinned  upon  the 
tent  at  Arba.  My  mother  gave  it  to  me,  and  I  was  allowed  to 
keep  it.  Everything  else  in  the  way  of  earthly  possessions  I,  of 
course,  had  to  give  up. 

"  You  have  never  seen  El-Largani,  my  home  for  nineteen 
years,  my  prison  for  one.  It  is  lonely,  but  not  in  the  least 
desolate.  It  stands  on  a  high  upland,  and,  from  a  distance,  looks 
upon  the  sea.  Far  off  there  are  mountains.  The  land  was  a 
desert.  The  monks  have  turned  it,  if  not  into  an  Eden,  at  least 
into  a  rich  garden.  There  are  vineyards,  cornfields,  orchards, 
almost  every  fruit-tree  flourishes  there.  The  springs  of  sweet 
waters  are  abundant.  At  a  short  way  from  the  monastery  is  a 
large  village  for  the  Spanish  workmen  whom  the  monks  super- 
vise in  the  labours  of  the  fields.  For  the  Trappist  life  is  not 
only  a  life  of  prayer,  but  a  life  of  diligent  labour.  When  I  be- 
came a  novice  I  had  not  realised  that.  I  had  imagined  myself 
continually  upon  my  knees.  I  found  instead  that  I  was  perpet- 
ually in  the  fields,  in  sun,  and  wind,  and  rain — that  was  in  the 
winter  time — working  like  the  labourers,  and  that  often  when 
we  went  into  the  long,  plain  chapel  to  pray  I  was  so  tired — 
being  only  a  boy — that  my  eyes  closed  as  I  stood  in  my  stall,  and 
I  could  scarcely  hear  the  words  of  Mass  or  Benediction.  But  I 
had  expected  to  be  happy  at  El-Largani,  and  I  was  happy. 
Labour  is  good  for  the  body  and  better  for  the  soul.  And  the 
silence  was  not  hard  to  bear.  The  Trappists  have  a  book  of 
gestures,  and  are  often  allowed  to  converse  by  signs.  We 
novices  were  generally  in  little  bands,  and  often,  as  we  walked 
in  the  garden  of  the  monastery,  we  talked  together  gaily  with 
our  hands.  Then  the  silence  is  not  perpetual.  In  the  fields  we 
often  had  to  give  directions  to  the  labourers.  In  the  school, 


406  THE  GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

where  we  studied  Theology,  Latin,  Greek,  there  was  heard  the 
voice  of  the  teacher.  It  is  true  that  I  have  seen  men  in  the  mon- 
astery day  by  day  for  twenty  years  with  whom  I  have  never 
exchanged  a  word,  but  I  have  had  permission  to  speak  with 
monks.  The  head  of  the  monastery,  the  Reverend  Pere,  has  the 
power  to  loose  the  bonds  of  silence  when  he  chooses,  and  to 
allow  monks  to  walk  and  speak  with  each  other  beyond  the 
white  walls  that  hem  in  the  garden  of  the  monastery.  Now  and 
then  we  spoke,  but  I  think  most  of  us  were  not  unhappy  in  our 
silence.  It  became  a  habit.  And  then  we  were  always  occu- 
pied. We  had  no  time  allowed  us  for  sitting  and  being  sad. 
Domini,  I  don't  want  to  tell  you  about  the  Trappists,  their  life 
— only  about  myself,  why  I  was  as  I  was,  how  I  came  to  change. 
For  years  I  was  not  unhappy  at  El-Largani.  When  my  time  of 
novitiate  was  over  I  took  the  eternal  vows  without  hesitation. 
Many  novices  go  out  again  into  the  world.  It  never  occurred 
to  me  to  do  so.  I  scarcely  ever  felt  a  stirring  of  worldly  desire. 
I  scarcely  ever  had  one  of  those  agonising  struggles  which  many 
people  probably  attribute  to  monks.  I  was  contented  nearly 
always.  Now  and  then  the  flesh  spoke,  but  not  strongly.  Re- 
member, our  life  was  a  life  of  hard  and  exhausting  labour  in  the 
fields.  The  labour  kept  the  flesh  in  subjection,  as  the  prayer 
lifted  up  the  spirit.  And  then,  during  all  my  earlier  years  at 
the  monastery,  we  had  an  Abbe  who  was  quick  to  understand 
the  characters  and  dispositions  of  men — Dom  Andre  Herceline. 
He  knew  me  far  better  than  I  knew  myself.  He  knew,  what  I 
did  not  suspect,  that  I  was  full  of  sleeping  violence,  that  in  my 
purity  and  devotion — or  beneath  it  rather — there  was  a  strong 
strain  of  barbarism.  The  Russian  was  sleeping  in  the  monk, 
but  sleeping  soundly.  That  can  be.  Half  a  man's  nature,  if  all 
that  would  call  to  it  is  carefully  kept  from  it,  may  sleep,  I  be- 
lieve, through  all  his  life.  He  might  die  and  never  have  known, 
or  been,  what  all  the  time  he  was.  For  years  it  was  so  with  me. 
I  knew  only  part  of  myself,  a  real  vivid  part — but  only  a  part. 
I  thought  it  was  the  whole.  And  while  I  thought  it  was  the 
whole  I  was  happy.  If  Dom  Andre  Herceline  had  not  died,  to- 
day I  should  be  a  monk  at  El-Largani,  ignorant  of  what  I  know, 
contented. 

"  He  never  allowed  me  to  come  into  any  sort  of  contact  with 
the  many  strangers  who  visited  the  monastery.  Different  monks 
have  different  duties.  Certain  duties  bring  monks  into  connec- 
tion with  the  travellers  whom  curiosity  sends  to  El-Largani. 
The  monk  whose  business  it  is  to  look  after  the  cemetery  on  the 


THE   REVELATION  407 

hill,  where  the  dead  Trappists  are  laid  to  rest,  shows  visitors 
round  the  little  chapel,  and  may  talk  with  them  freely  so  long  as 
they  remain  in  the  cemetery.  The  monk  in  charge  of  the  dis- 
tillery also  receives  visitors  and  converses  with  them.  So  does 
the  monk  in  charge  of  the  parlour  at  the  great  door  of  the  mon- 
astery. He  sells  the  souvenirs  of  the  Trappists,  photographs  of 
the  church  and  buildings,  statues  of  saints,  bottles  of  perfumes 
made  by  the  monks.  He  takes  the  orders  for  the  wines  made  at 
the  monastery,  and  for — for  the — what  I  made,  Domini,  when 
I  was  there." 

She  thought  of  De  Trevignac  and  the  fragments  of  glass  lying 
upon  the  ground  in  the  tent  at  Mogar. 

"  Had  De  Trevignac "  she  said  in  a  low,  inward  voice. 

"  He  had  seen  me,  spoken  with  me  at  the  monastery.  When 
Ouardi  brought  in  the  liqueur  he  remembered  who  I  was." 

She  understood  De  Trevignac's  glance  towards  the  tent  where 
Androvsky  lay  sleeping,  and  a  slight  shiver  ran  through  her. 
Androvsky  saw  it  and  looked  down. 

"  But  the— the " 

He  cleared  his  throat,  turned,  looked  out  across  the  white 
sand  as  if  he  longed  to  travel  away  into  it  and  be  lost  for  ever, 
then  went  on,  speaking  quickly: 

**  But  the  monk  who  has  most  to  do  with  travellers  is  the 
monk  who  is  in  charge  of  the  hotellerie  of  the  monastery.  He 
is  the  host  to  all  visitors,  to  those  who  come  over  for  the  day 
and  have  dejeuner,  and  to  any  who  remain  for  the  night,  or 
for  a  longer  time.  For  when  I  was  at  El-Largani  it  was  per- 
mitted for  people  to  stay  in  the  hotellerie,  on  payment  of  a  small 
weekly  sum,  for  as  long  as  they  pleased.  The  monk  of  the 
hotellerie  is  perpetually  brought  into  contact  with  the  outside 
world.  He  talks  with  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men — women, 
of  course,  are  not  admitted.  The  other  monks,  many  of  them, 
probably  envy  him.  I  never  did.  I  had  no  wish  to  see  stran- 
gers. When,  by  chance,  I  met  them  in  the  yard,  the  out-build- 
ings, or  the  grounds  of  the  monastery,  I  seldom  even  raised  my 
eyes  to  look  at  them.  They  were  not,  would  never  be,  in  my 
life.  Why  should  I  look  at  them?  What  were  they  to  me? 
Years  went  on — quickly  they  passed — not  slowly.  I  did  not 
feel  their  monotony.  I  never  shrank  from  anything  in  the  life. 
My  health  was  splendid.  I  never  knew  what  it  was  to  be  ill 
for  a  day.  My  muscles  were  hard  as  iron.  The  pallet  on 
which  I  lay  in  my  cubicle,  the  heavy  robe  I  wore  day  and  night, 
the  scanty  vegetables  I  ate,  the  bell  that  called  me  from  my  sleep 


4o8  THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 

in  the  darkness  to  go  to  the  chapel,  the  fastings,  the  watchings, 
the  perpetual  sameness  of  all  I  saw,  all  I  did,  neither  saddened 
nor  fatigued  me.  I  never  sighed  for  change.  Can  you  believe 
that,  Domini?  It  is  true.  So  long  as  Dom  Andre  Herceline 
lived  and  ruled  my  life  I  was  calm,  happy,  as  few  people  in  the 
world,  or  none,  can  ever  be.  But  Dom  Andre  died,  and 
then " 

His  face  was  contorted  by  a  spasm. 

"  My  mother  was  dead.  My  brother  lived  on  in  Tunis,  and 
was  successful  in  business.  He  remained  unmarried.  So  far  as 
I  was  concerned,  although  the  monastery  was  but  two  hours' 
drive  from  the  town,  he  might  almost  have  been  dead  too.  I 
scarcely  ever  saw  him,  and  then  only  by  a  special  permission  from 
the  Reverend  Pere,  and  for  a  few  moments.  Once  I  visited  him 
at  Tunis,  when  he  was  ill.  When  my  mother  died  I  seemed  to 
sink  down  a  little  deeper  into  the  monastic  life.  That  was  all. 
It  was  as  if  I  drew  my  robe  more  closely  round  me  and  pulled 
my  hood  further  forward  over  my  face.  There  was  more  reason 
for  my  prayers,  and  I  prayed  more  passionately.  I  lived  in 
prayer  like  a  sea-plant  in  the  depths  of  the  ocean.  Prayer  was 
about  me  like  a  fluid.  But  Dom  Andre  Herceline  died,  and  a 
new  Abbe  was  appointed,  he  who,  I  suppose,  rules  now  at  El- 
Largani.  He  was  a  good  man,  but,  I  think,  apt  to  misunder- 
stand men.  The  Abbe  of  a  Trappist  monastery  has  complete 
power  over  his  community.  He  can  order  what  he  will.  Soon 
after  he  came  to  El-Largani — for  some  reason  that  I  cannot 
divine — he  removed  the  Pere  Michel,  who  had  been  for  years  in 
charge  of  the  cemetery,  from  his  duties  there,  and  informed  me 
that  I  was  to  undertake  them.  I  obeyed,  of  course,  without  a 
word. 

"  The  cemetery  of  El-Largani  is  on  a  low  hill,  the  highest 
part  of  the  monastery  grounds.  It  is  surrounded  by  a  white  wall 
and  by  a  hedge  of  cypress  trees.  The  road  to  it  is  an  avenue  of 
cypresses,  among  which  are  interspersed  niches  containing  carv- 
ings of  the  Fourteen  Stations  of  the  Cross.  At  the  entrance  to 
this  avenue,  on  the  left,  there  is  a  high  yellow  pedestal,  sur- 
mounted by  a  black  cross,  on  which  hangs  a  silver  Christ. 
Underneath  is  written : 

"  FACTUS  OBEDIENS 

"  USQUE 

"  AD  MORTEM 

"  CRUCIS. 


THE  REVELATION  409 

"  I  remember,  on  the  first  day  when  I  became  the  guardian  of 
the  cemetery,  stopping  on  my  way  to  it  before  the  Christ  and 
praying.  My  prayer — my  prayer  was,  Domini,  that  I  might  die, 
as  I  had  lived,  in  innocence.  I  prayed  for  that,  but  with  a  sort 
of — yes,  now  I  think  so — insolent  certainty  that  my  prayer 
would  of  course  be  granted.  Then  I  went  on  to  the  cemetery. 

"  My  work  there  was  easy.  I  had  only  to  tend  the  land  about 
the  graves,  and  sweep  out  the  little  chapel  where  was  buried  the 
founder  of  La  Trappe  of  El-Largani.  This  done  I  could  wan- 
der about  the  cemetery,  or  sit  on  a  bench  in  the  sun.  The  Pere 
Michel,  who  was  my  predecessor,  had  some  doves,  and  had  left 
them  behind  in  a  little  house  by  my  bench.  I  took  care  of  and 
fed  them.  They  were  tame,  and  used  to  flutter  to  my  shoulders 
and  perch  on  my  hands.  To  birds  and  animals  I  was  always  a 
friend.  At  El-Largani  there  are  all  sorts  of  beasts,  and,  at  one 
time  or  another,  it  had  been  my  duty  to  look  after  most  of  them. 
I  loved  all  living  things.  Sitting  in  the  cemetery  I  could  see  a 
great  stretch  of  country,  the  blue  of  the  lakes  of  Tunis  with  the 
white  villages  at  their  edge,  the  boats  gliding  upon  them  towards 
the  white  city,  the  distant  mountains.  Having  little  to  do,  I  sat 
day  after  day  for  hours  meditating,  and  looking  out  upon  this 
distant  world.  I  remember  specially  one  evening,  at  sunset,  just 
before  I  had  to  go  to  the  chapel,  that  a  sort  of  awe  came  upon 
me  as  I  looked  across  the  lakes.  The  sky  was  golden,  the  waters 
were  dyed  with  gold,  out  of  which  rose  the  white  sails  of  boats. 
The  mountains  were  shadowy  purple.  The  little  minarets  of 
the  mosques  rose  into  the  gold  like  sticks  of  ivory.  As  I  watched 
my  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  I  felt  a  sort  of  aching  in  my  heart, 
and  as  if — Domini,  it  was  as  if  at  that  moment  a  hand  was  laid; 
on  mine,  but  very  gently,  and  pulled  at  my  hand.  It  was  as  if 
at  that  moment  someone  was  beside  me  in  the  cemetery  wishing 
to  lead  me  out  to  those  far-off  waters,  those  mosque  towers, 
those  purple  mountains.  Never  before  had  I  had  such  a  sensa- 
tion. It  frightened  me.  I  felt  as  if  the  devil  had  come  into  the 
cemetery,  as  if  his  hand  was  laid  on  mine,  as  if  his  voice  were 
whispering  in  my  ear,  '  Come  out  with  me  into  that  world,  that 
beautiful  world,  which  God  made  for  men.  Why  do  you 
reject  it?' 

"  That  evening,  Domini,  was  the  beginning  of  this — this  end. 
Day  after  day  I  sat  in  the  cemetery  and  looked  out  over  the 
world,  and  wondered  what  it  was  like:  what  were  the  lives  of 
the  men  who  sailed  in  the  white-winged  boats,  who  crowded  on 
the  steamers  whose  smoke  I  could  see  sometimes  faintly  trailing 


4io  THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 

away  into  the  track  of  the  sun;  who  kept  the  sheep  upon  the 
mountains;  who — who — Domini,  can  you  imagine — no,  you 
cannot — what,  in  a  man  of  my  age,  of  my  blood,  were  these  first, 
very  first,  stirrings  of  the  longing  for  life?  Sometimes  I  think 
they  were  like  the  first  birth-pangs  of  a  woman  who  is  going  to 
be  a  mother." 

Domini's  hands  moved  apart,  then  joined  themselves  again. 

"  There  was  something  physical  in  them.  I  felt  as  if  my 
limbs  had  minds,  and  that  their  minds,  which  had  been  asleep, 
were  waking.  My  arms  twitched  with  a  desire  to  stretch  them- 
selves towards  the  distant  blue  of  the  lakes  on  which  I  should 
never  sail.  My — I  was  physically  stirred.  And  again  and  again 
I  felt  that  hand  laid  closely  upon  mine,  as  if  to  draw  me  away 
into  something  I  had  never  known,  could  never  know.  Do  not 
think  that  I  did  not  strive  against  these  first  stirrings  of  the  na- 
ture that  had  slept  so  long!  For  days  I  refused  to  let  myself 
look  out  from  the  cemetery.  I  kept  my  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
upon  the  plain  crosses  that  marked  the  graves.  I  played  with 
the  red-eyed  doves.  I  worked.  But  my  eyes  at  last  rebelled.  I 
said  to  myself,  *  It  is  not  forbidden  to  look.'  And  again  the 
sails,  the  seas,  the  towers,  the  mountains,  were  as  voices  whis- 
pering to  me,  '  Why  will  you  never  know  us,  draw  near  to  us  ? 
Why  will  you  never  understand  our  meaning?  Why  will  you 
be  ignorant  for  ever  of  all  that  has  been  created  for  man  to 
know?'  Then  the  pain  within  me  became  almost  unbearable. 
At  night  I  could  not  sleep.  In  the  chapel  it  was  difficult  to 
pray.  I  looked  at  the  monks  around  me,  to  most  of  whom  I  had 
never  addressed  a  word,  and  I  thought,  '  Do  they,  too,  hold  such 
longings  within  them?  Are  they,  too,  shaken  with  a  desire  of 
knowledge  ?  '  It  seemed  to  me  that,  instead  of  a  place  of  peace, 
the  monastery  was,  must  be,  a  place  of  tumult,  of  the  silent 
tumult  that  has  its  home  in  the  souls  of  men.  But  then  I  remem- 
bered for  how  long  I  had  been  at  peace.  Perhaps  all  the  silent 
men  by  whom  I  was  surrounded  were  still  at  peace,  as  I  had 
been,  as  I  might  be  again. 

"  A  young  monk  died  in  the  monastery  and  was  buried  in  the 
'cemetery.  I  made  his  grave  against  the  outer  wall,  beneath  a 
cypress  tree.  Some  days  afterwards,  when  I  was  sitting  on  the 
bench  by  the  house  of  the  doves,  I  heard  a  sound,  which  came 
from  beyond  the  wall.  It  was  like  sobbing.  I  listened,  and 
heard  it  more  distinctly,  and  knew  that  it  was  someone  crying 
and  sobbing  desperately,  and  near  at  hand.  But  now  it  seemed 
to  me  to  come  from  the  wall  itself.  I  got  up  and  listened. 


THE  REVELATION 

Someone  was  crying  bitterly  behind,  or  above,  the  wall,  just 
where  the  young  monk  had  been  buried.  Who  could  it  be?  I 
stood  listening,  wondering,  hesitating  what  to  do.  There  was 
something  in  this  sound  of  lamentation  that  moved  one  to  the 
depths.  For  years  I  had  not  looked  on  a  woman,  or  heard  a 
woman's  voice — but  I  knew  that  this  was  a  woman  mourning. 
Why  was  she  there  ?  What  could  she  want  ?  I  glanced  up.  All 
round  the  cemetery,  as  I  have  said,  grew  cypress  trees.  As  I 
glanced  up  I  saw  one  shake  just  above  where  the  new  grave  was, 
and  a  woman's  voice  said,  '  I  cannot  see  it,  I  cannot  see  it ! ' 

"  I  do  not  know  why,  but  I  felt  that  someone  was  there  who 
wished  to  see  the  young  monk's  grave.  For  a  moment  I  stood 
there.  Then  I  went  to  the  house  where  I  kept  my  tools  for  my 
work  in  the  cemetery,  and  got  a  shears  which  I  used  for  lopping 
the  cypress  trees.  I  took  a  ladder  quickly,  set  it  against  the  wall, 
mounted  it,  and  from  the  cypress  I  had  seen  moving  I  lopped 
some  of  the  boughs.  The  sobbing  ceased.  As  the  boughs  fell 
down  from  the  tree  I  saw  a  woman's  face,  tear-stained,  staring  at 
me.  It  seemed  to  me  a  lovely  face. 

"  '  Which  is  his  grave?  '  she  said.  I  pointed  to  the  grave  of 
the  young  monk,  which  could  now  be  seen  through  the  gap  I  had 
made,  descended  the  ladder,  and  went  away  to  the  farthest  cor- 
ner of  the  cemetery.  And  I  did  not  look  again  in  the  direction 
of  the  woman's  face. 

"  Who  she  was  I  do  not  know.  When  she  went  away  I  did 
not  see.  She  loved  the  monk  who  had  died,  and  knowing  that 
women  cannot  enter  the  precincts  of  the  monastery,  she  had 
come  to  the  outside  wall  to  cast,  if  she  might,  a  despairing  glance 
at  his  grave. 

"  Domini,  I  wonder — I  wonder  if  you  can  understand  how 
that  incident  affected  me.  To  an  ordinary  man  it  would  seem 
nothing,  I  suppose.  But  to  a  Trappist  monk  it  seemed  tremen- 
dous. I  had  seen  a  woman.  I  had  done  something  for  a 
woman.  I  thought  of  her,  of  what  I  had  done  for  her,  perpet- 
ually. The  gap  in  the  cypress  tree  reminded  me  of  her  every 
time  I  looked  towards  it.  When  I  was  in  the  cemetery  I  could 
hardly  turn  my  eyes  from  it.  But  the  woman  never  came  again. 
I  said  nothing  to  the  Reverend  Pere  of  what  I  had  done.  I 
ought  to  have  spoken,  but  I  did  not.  I  kept  it  back  when  I  con- 
fessed. From  that  moment  I  had  a  secret,  and  it  was  a  secret 
connected  with  a  woman. 

"  Does  it  seem  strange  to  you  that  this  secret  seemed  to  me 
to  set  me  apart  from  all  the  other  monks — nearer  the  world? 


4i2  THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 

It  was  so.  I  felt  sometimes  as  if  I  had  been  out  into  the  world 
for  a  moment,  had  known  the  meaning  that  women  have  for 
men.  I  wondered  who  the  woman  was.  I  wondered  how  she 
had  loved  the  young  monk  who  was  dead.  He  used  to  sit  beside 
me  in  the  chapel.  He  had  a  pure  and  beautiful  face,  such  a  face, 
I  supposed,  as  a  woman  might  well  love.  Had  this  woman  loved 
him,  and  had  he  rejected  her  love  for  the  life  of  the  monastery  ? 
I  remember  one  day  thinking  of  this  and  wondering  how  it  had 
been  possible  for  him  to  do  so,  and  then  suddenly  realising  the 
meaning  of  my  thought  and  turning  hot  with  shame.  I  had  put 
the  love  of  woman  above  the  love  of  God,  woman's  service  above 
God's  service.  That  day  I  was  terrified  of  myself.  I  went  back 
to  the  monastery  from  the  cemetery  quickly,  asked  to  see  the 
Reverend  Pere,  and  begged  him  to  remove  me  from  the  ceme- 
tery, to  give  me  some  other  work.  He  did  not  ask  my  reason 
for  wishing  to  change,  but  three  days  afterwards  he  sent  for  me, 
and  told  me  that  I  was  to  be  placed  in  charge  of  the  hotellerie  of 
the  monastery,  and  that  my  duties  there  were  to  begin  upon  the 
morrow. 

"  Domini,  I  wonder  if  I  can  make  you  realise  what  that 
change  meant  to  a  man  who  had  lived  as  I  had  for  so  many 
years.  The  hotellerie  of  El-Largani  is  a  long,  low,  one-storied 
building  standing  in  a  garden  full  of  palms  and  geraniums.  It 
contains  a  kitchen,  a  number  of  little  rooms  like  cells  for  visitors, 
and  two  large  parlours  in  which  guests  are  entertained  at  meals. 
In  one  they  sit  to  eat  the  fruit,  eggs,  and  vegetables  provided  by 
the  monastery,  with  wine.  If  after  the  meal  they  wish  to  take 
coffee  they  pass  into  the  second  parlour.  Visitors  who  stay  in 
the  monastery  are  free  to  do  much  as  they  please,  but  they  must 
conform  to  certain  rules.  They  rise  at  a  certain  hour,  feed  at 
fixed  times,  and  are  obliged  to  go  to  their  bedrooms  at  half-past 
seven  in  the  evening  in  winter,  and  at  eight  in  summer.  The 
monk  in  charge  of  the  hotellerie  has  to  see  to  their  comfort. 
He  looks  after  the  kitchen,  is  always  in  the  parlour  at  some 
moment  or  another  during  meals.  He  visits  the  bedrooms  and 
takes  care  that  the  one  servant  keeps  everything  spotlessly  clean. 
He  shows  people  round  the  garden.  His  duties,  you  see,  are 
light  and  social.  He  cannot  go  into  the  world,  but  he  can  mix 
with  the  world  that  comes  to  him.  It  is  his  task,  if  not  his 
pleasure,  to  be  cheerful,  talkative,  sympathetic,  a  good  host,  with 
a  genial  welcome  for  all  who  come  to  La  Trappe.  After  my 
years  of  labour,  solitude,  silence,  and  prayer,  I  was  abruptly 
put  into  this  new  life. 


THE   REVELATION  413 

"  Domini,  to  me  it  was  like  rushing  out  into  the  world.  I 
was  almost  dazed  by  the  change.  At  first  I  was  nervous,  timid, 
awkward,  and,  especially,  tongue-tied.  The  habit  of  silence  had 
taken  such  a  hold  upon  me  that  I  could  not  throw  it  off.  I 
dreaded  the  coming  of  visitors.  I  did  not  know  how  to  receive 
them,  what  to  say  to  them.  Fortunately,  as  I  thought,  the 
tourist  season  was  over,  the  summer  was  approaching.  Very  few 
people  came,  and  those  only  to  eat  a  meal.  I  tried  to  be  polite 
and  pleasant  to  them,  and  gradually  I  began  to  fall  into  the  way 
of  talking  without  the  difficulty  I  had  experienced  at  first.  In 
the  beginning  I  could  not  open  my  lips  without  feeling  as  if  I 
were  almost  committing  a  crime.  But  presently  I  was  more 
natural,  less  taciturn.  I  even,  now  and  then,  took  some  pleas- 
ure in  speaking  to  a  pleasant  visitor.  I  grew  to  love  the  garden 
with  its  flowers,  its  orange  trees,  its  groves  of  eucalyptus,  its 
vineyard  which  sloped  towards  the  cemetery.  Often  I  wan- 
dered in  it  alone,  or  sat  under  the  arcade  that  divided  it  from 
the  large  entrance  court  of  the  monastery,  meditating,  listening 
to  the  bees  humming,  and  watching  the  cats  basking  in  the 
sunshine. 

"  Sometimes,  when  I  was  there,  I  thought  of  the  woman's 
face  above  the  cemetery  wall.  Sometimes  I  seemed  to  feel  the 
hand  tugging  at  mine.  But  I  was  more  at  peace  than  I  had  been 
in  the  cemetery.  For  from  the  garden  I  could  not  see  the  dis- 
tant world,  and  of  the  chance  visitors  none  had  as  yet  set  a 
match  to  the  torch  that,  unknown  to  me,  was  ready — at  the 
coming  of  the  smallest  spark — to  burst  into  a  flame. 

"  One  day,  it  was  in  the  morning  towards  half-past  ten,  when 
I  was  sitting  reading  my  Greek  Testament  on  a  bench  just  inside 
the  doorway  of  the  hotellerie,  I  heard  the  great  door  of  the 
monastery  being  opened,  and  then  the  rolling  of  carriage  wheels 
in  the  courtyard.  Some  visitor  had  arrived  from  Tunis,  perhaps 
some  visitors — three  or  four.  It  was  a  radiant  morning  of  late 
May.  The  garden  was  brilliant  with  flowers,  golden  with  sun- 
shine, tender  with  shade,  and  quiet — quiet  and  peaceful,  Domini ! 
There  was  a  wonderful  peace  in  the  garden  that  day,  a  peace 
that  seemed  full  of  safety,  of  enduring  cheerfulness.  The  flowers 
looked  as  if  they  had  hearts  to  understand  it,  and  love  it,  the 
roses  along  the  yellow  wall  of  the  house  that  clambered  to  the 
brown  red  tiles,  the  geraniums  that  grew  in  masses  under  the 
shining  leaves  of  the  orange  trees,  the — I  felt  as  if  that  day  I 
were  in  the  Garden  of  Eden,  and  I  remember  that  when  I  heard 
the  carriage  wheels  I  had  a  moment  of  selfish  sadness.  I 


4H  THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 

thought :  '  Why  does  anyone  come  to  disturb  my  blessed  peace, 
my  blessed  solitude  ? '  Then  I  realised  the  egoism  of  my 
thought  and  that  I  was  there  with  my  duty.  I  got  up,  went 
into  the  kitchen  and  said  to  Frangois,  the  servant,  that  someone 
had  come  and  no  doubt  would  stay  to  dejeuner.  And,  as  I 
spoke,  already  I  was  thinking  of  the  moment  when  I  should 
hear  the  roll  of  wheels  once  more,  the  clang  of  the  shutting  gate, 
and  know  that  the  intruders  upon  the  peace  of  the  Trappists 
had  gone  back  to  the  world,  and  that  I  could  once  more  be  alone 
in  the  little  Eden  I  loved. 

"  Strangely,  Domini,  strangely,  that  day,  of  all  the  days  of 
my  life,  I  was  most  in  love — it  was  like  that,  like  being  in  love — 
with  my  monk's  existence.  The  terrible  feeling  that  had  begun 
to  ravage  me  had  completely  died  away.  I  adored  the  peace  in 
which  my  days  were  passed.  I  looked  at  the  flowers  and  com- 
pared my  happiness  with  theirs.  They  blossomed,  bloomed, 
faded,  died  in  the  garden.  So  would  I  wish  to  blossom,  bloom, 
fade — when  my  time  came — die  in  the  garden — always  in  peace, 
always  in  safety,  always  isolated  from  the  terrors  of  life,  always 
under  the  tender  watchful  eye  of — of — Domini,  that  day  I  was 
happy,  as  perhaps  they  are — perhaps — the  saints  in  Paradise.  I 
was  happy  because  I  felt  no  inclination  to  evil.  I  felt  as  if  my 
joy  lay  entirely  in  being  innocent.  Oh,  what  an  ecstasy  such  a 
feeling  is !  '  My  will  accord  with  Thy  design — I  love  to  live 
as  Thou  intendest  me  to  live !  Any  other  way  of  life  would  be 
to  me  a  terror,  would  bring  to  me  despair.' 

"  And  I  felt  that — intensely  I  felt  it  at  that  moment  in  heart 
and  soul.  It  was  as  if  I  had  God's  arms  round  me,  caressing  me 
as  a  father  caresses  his  child." 

He  moved  away  a  step  or  two  in  the  sand,  came  back,  and 
went  on  with  an  effort : 

"  Within  a  few  minutes  the  porter  of  the  monastery  came 
through  the  archway  of  the  arcade  follbwed  by  a  young  man. 
As  I  looked  up  at  him  I  was  uncertain  of  his  nationality.  But  I 
scarcely  thought  about  it — except  in  the  first  moment.  For 
something  else  seized  my  attention — the  intense,  active  misery 
in  the  stranger's  face.  He  looked  ravaged,  eaten  by  grief.  I 
said  he  was  young — perhaps  twenty-six  or  twenty-seven.  His 
face  was  rather  dark-complexioned,  with  small,  good  features. 
He  had  thick  brown  hair,  and  his  eyes  shone  with  intelligence, 
with  an  intelligence  that  was  almost  painful — somehow.  His 
eyes  always  looked  to  me  as  if  they  were  seeing  too  much,  had 
always  seen  too  much.  There  was  a  restlessness  in  the  swift- 


THE   REVELATION  415 

ness  of  their  observation.    One  could  not  conceive  of  them  closed 
in  sleep.     An  activity  that  must  surely  be  eternal  blazed  in  them. 

"  The  porter  left  the  stranger  in  the  archway.  It  was  now 
my  duty  to  attend  to  him.  I  welcomed  him  in  French.  He 
took  off  his  hat.  When  he  did  that  I  felt  sure  he  was  an 
Englishman — by  the  look  of  him  bareheaded — and  I  told  him 
that  I  spoke  English  as  well  as  French.  He  answered  that  he 
was  at  home  in  French,  but  that  he  was  English.  We  talked 
English.  His  entrance  into  the  garden  had  entirely  destroyed 
my  sense  of  its  peace — even  my  own  peace  was  disturbed  at  once 
by  his  appearance. 

"  I  felt  that  I  was  in  the  presence  of  a  misery  that  was  like  a 
devouring  element.  Before  we  had  time  for  more  than  a  very 
few  halting  words  the  bell  was  rung  by  Frangois. 

"  *  What's  that  for,  Father?  '  the  stranger  said,  with  a  start, 
which  showed  that  his  nerves  were  shattered. 
1 '  It  is  time  for  your  meal,'  I  answered. 

"  '  One  must  eat ! '  he  said.  Then,  as  if  conscious  that  he 
was  behaving  oddly,  he  added  politely: 

; '  I  know  you  entertain  us  too  well  here,  and  have  sometimes 
been  rewarded  with  coarse  ingratitude.    Where  do  I  go  ? ' 

"  I  showed  him  into  the  parlour.     There  was  no  one  there 
that  day.     He  sat  at  the  long  table. 
1  I  am  to  eat  alone  ?  '  he  asked. 
'  Yes ;  I  will  serve  you.' 

"  Frangois  always  waited  on  the  guests,  but  that  day — mind- 
ful of  the  selfishness  of  my  thoughts  in  the  garden — I  resolved 
to  add  to  my  duties.  I  therefore  brought  the  soup,  the  lentils, 
the  omelette,  the  oranges,  poured  out  the  wine,  and  urged  the 
young  man  cordially  to  eat.  When  I  did  so  he  looked  up  at  me. 
His  eyes  were  extraordinarily  expressive.  It  was  as  if  I  heard 
them  say  to  me,  '  Why,  I  like  you ! '  and  as  if,  just  for  a  mo- 
ment, his  grief  were  lessened. 

"  In  the  empty  parlour,  long,  clean,  bare,  with  a  crucifix  on 
the  wall  and  the  name  '  Saint  Bernard  '  above  the  door,  it  was 
very  quiet,  very  shady.  The  outer  blinds  of  green  wood  were 
drawn  over  the  window-spaces,  shutting  out  the  gold  of  the 
garden.  But  its  murmuring  tranquillity  seemed  to  filter  in,  as  if 
the  flowers,  the  insects,  the  birds  were  aware  of  our  presence  and 
were  trying  to  say  to  us,  *  Are  you  happy  as  we  are  ?  Be  happy 
as  we  are.' 

"  The  stranger  looked  at  the  shady  room,  the  open  windows. 
.He  sighed. 


416  THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 

"  'How  quiet  it  is  here!  *  he  said,  almost  as  if  to  himself. 
'  How  quiet  it  is ! ' 

"  '  Yes,'  I  answered.  '  Summer  is  beginning.  For  months 
now  scarcely  anyone  will  come  to  us  here.' 

:<  '-Us?  '  he  said,  glancing  at  me  with  a  sudden  smile. 

"  '  I  meant  to  us  who  are  monks,  who  live  always  here.' 

"  '  May  I — is  it  indiscreet  to  ask  if  you  have  been  here 
long?' 

"  I  told  him. 

"  '  More  than  nineteen  years ! '  he  said. 

"  '  Yes.' 
[ '  And  always  in  this  silence  ?  ' 

"  He  sat  as  if  listening,  resting  his  head  on  his  hand. 
: '  How  extraordinary ! '  he  said  at  last.     '  How  wonderful ! 
Is  it  happiness  ?  ' 

"  I  did  not  answer.  The  question  seemed  to  me  to  be 
addressed  to  himself,  not  to  me.  I  could  leave  him  to  seek  for 
the  answer.  After  a  moment  he  went  on  eating  and  drinking  in 
silence.  When  he  had  finished  I  asked  him  whether  he  would 
take  coffee.  He  said  he  would,  and  I  made  him  pass  into  the 
St.  Joseph  salle.  There  I  brought  him  coffee  and — and  that 
liqueur.  I  told  him  that  it  was  my  invention.  He  seemed  to  be 
interested.  At  any  rate,  he  took  a  glass  and  praised  it  strongly. 
I  was  pleased.  I  think  I  showed  it.  From  that  moment  I  felt 
as  if  we  were  almost  friends.  Never  before  had  I  experienced 
such  a  feeling  for  anyone  who  had  come  to  the  monastery, 
or  for  any  monk  or  novice  in  the  monastery.  Although  I 
had  been  vexed,  irritated,  at  the  approach  of  a  stranger  I  now 
felt  regret  at  the  idea  of  his  going  away.  Presently  the  time 
came  to  show  him  round  the  garden.  We  went  out  of  the 
shadowy  parlour  into  the  sunshine.  No  one  was  in  the  garden. 
Only  the  bees  were  humming,  the  birds  were  passing,  the  cats 
were  basking  on  the  broad  path  that  stretched  from  the  arcade 
along  the  front  of  the  hotellerie.  As  we  came  out  a  bell  chimed, 
breaking  for  an  instant  the  silence,  and  making  it  seem  the 
sweeter  when  it  returned.  We  strolled  for  a  little  while.  We 
did  not  talk  much.  The  stranger's  eyes,  I  noticed,  were  every- 
where, taking  in  every  detail  of  the  scene  around  us.  Presently 
we  came  to  the  vineyard,  to  the  left  of  which  was  the  road  that 
led  to  the  cemetery,  passed  up  the  road  and  arrived  at  the 
cemetery  gate. 

"  '  Here  I  must  leave  you,'  I  said. 

"'Why?'  he  asked  quickly. 


THE    REVELATION  417 

"  '  There  is  another  Father  who  will  show  you  the  chapel.  I 
shall  wait  for  you  here.' 

"  I  sat  down  and  waited.  When  the  stranger  returned  it 
seemed  to  me  that  his  face  was  calmer,  that  there  was  a  quieter 
expression  in  his  eyes.  When  we  were  once  more  before  the 
hotellerie  I  said: 

"  You  have  seen  all  my  small  domain  now.' 
"  He  glanced  at  the  house. 

1  '  But  there  seems  to  be  a  number  of  rooms,5  he  said. 
"  '  Only  the  bedrooms.' 

:  *  Bedrooms?    Do  people  stay  the  night  here?  ' 
"  '  Sometimes.     If  they  please  they  can  stay  for  longer  than 
a  night.' 

'  How  much  longer?  ' 

: '  For  any  time  they  please,  if  they  conform  to  one  or  two 
simple  rules  and  pay  a  small  fixed  sum  to  the  monastery.' 

*•  Do  you   mean   that  you  could   take  anyone  in   for  the 
summer  ?  '  he  said  abruptly. 

1  Why  not  ?    The  consent  of  the  Revernd  Pere  has  to  be 
obtained.     That  is  all.' 

*  I  should  like  to  see  the  bedrooms.' 
"  I  took  him  in  and  showed  him  one. 
' '  All  the  others  are  the  same,'  I  said. 

"  He  glanced  round  at  the  white  walls,  the  rough  bed,  the 
crucifix  above  it,  the  iron  basin,  the  paved  floor,  then  went  to 
the  window  and  looked  out. 

'  Well,'  he  said,  drawing  back  into  the  room,  *  I  will  go 
now  to  see  the  Pere  Abbe,  if  it  is  permitted.' 

"  On  the  garden  path  I  bade  him  good-bye.  He  shook  my 
hand.  There  was  an  odd  smile  in  his  face.  Half-an-hour 
later  I  saw  him  coming  again  through  the  arcade. 

;  *  Father,'  he  said,  '  I  am  not  going  away.  I  have  asked 
the  Pere  Abbe's  permission  to  stay  here.  He  has  given  it  to 
me.  To-morrow  such  luggage  as  I  need  will  be  sent  over 
from  Tunis.  Are  you — are  you  very  vexed  to  have  a  stranger 
to  trouble  your  peace  ?  ' 

"  His  intensely  observant  eyes  were  fixed  upon  me  while  he 
spoke.  I  answered: 

'  I  do  not  think  you  will  trouble  my  peace.' 
"And  my  thought  was: 

'  I  will  help  you  to  find  the  peace  which  you  have  lost.' 
Was   it   a  presumptuous  thought,    Domini?    Was   it   inso- 
lent?   At  the  time  it  seemed  to  me  absolutely  sincere,  one  of 


418  THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 

the  best  thoughts  I  had  ever  had — a  thought  put  into  my  heart 
by  God.  I  didn't  know  then — I  didn't  know." 

He  stopped  speaking,  and  stood  for  a  time  quite  still,  looking 
down  at  the  sand,  which  was  silver  white  under  the  moon.  At 
last  .he  lifted  his  head  and  said,  speaking  slowly: 

"  It  was  the  coming  of  this  man  that  put  the  spark  to  that 
torch.  It  was  he  who  woke  up  in  me  the  half  of  myself  which, 
unsuspected  by  me,  had  been  slumbering  through  all  my  life, 
slumbering  and  gathering  strength  in  slumber — as  the  body 
does — gathering  a  strength  that  was  tremendous,  that  was  to 
overmaster  the  whole  of  me,  that  was  to  make  of  me  one  mad 
impulse.  He  woke  up  in  me  the  body  and  the  body  was  to 
take  possession  of  the  soul.  I  wonder — can  I  make  you  feel 
why  this  man  was  able  to  affect  me  thus?  Can  I  make  you 
know  this  man? 

"  He  was  a  man  full  of  secret  violence,  violence  of  the  mind 
and  violence  of  the  body,  a  volcanic  man.  He  was  English— he 
said  so — but  there  must  have  been  blood  that  was  not  English 
in  his  veins.  When  I  was  with  him  I  felt  as  if  I  was  with  fire. 
There  was  the  restlessness  of  fire  in  him.  There  was  the  in- 
tensity of  fire.  He  could  be  reserved.  He  could  appear  to  be 
cold.  But  always  I  was  conscious  that  if  there  was  stone  with- 
out there  was  scorching  heat  within.  He  was  watchful  of  him- 
self and  of  everyone  with  whom  he  came  into  the  slightest 
contact.  He  was  very  clever.  He  had  an  immense  amount 
of  personal  charm,  I  think,  at  any  rate  for  me.  He  was  very 
human,  passionately  interested  in  humanity.  He  was — and  this 
was  specially  part  of  him,  a  dominant  trait — he  was  savagely, 
yes,  savagely,  eager  to  be  happy,  and  when  he  came  to  live  in 
the  hotellerie  he  was  savagely  unhappy.  An  egoist  he  was,  a 
thinker,  a  man  who  longed  to  lay  hold  of  something  beyond 
this  world,  but  who  had  not  been  able  to  do  so.  Even  his 
desire  to  find  rest  in  a  religion  seemed  to  me  to  have  greed  in 
it,  to  have  something  in  it  that  was  akin  to  avarice.  He  was  a 
human  storm,  Domini,  as  well  as  a  human  fire.  Think!  what 
a  man  to  be  cast  by  the  world — which  he  knew  as  they  know 
it  only  who  are  voracious  for  life  and  free — into  my  quiet 
existence. 

"  Very  soon  he  began  to  show  himself  to  me  as  he  was, 
with  a  sort  of  fearlessness  that  was  almost  impudent.  The 
conditions  of  our  two  lives  in  the  monastery  threw  us  per- 
petually together  in  a  curious  isolation.  And  the  Reverend 
Pere,  Domini,  the  Reverend  Pere,  set  my  feet  in  the  path  of 


THE   REVELATION  419 

my  own  destruction.  On  the  day  after  the  stranger  had  arrived 
the  Reverend  Pere  sent  for  me  to  his  private  room,  and  said  to 
me,  '  Our  new  guest  is  in  a  very  unhappy  state.  He  has  been 
attracted  by  our  peace.  If  we  can  bring  peace  to  him  it  will  be 
an  action  acceptable  to  God.  You  will  be  much  with  him. 
Try  to  do  him  good.  He  is  not  a  Catholic,  but  no  matter. 
He  wishes  to  attend  the  services  in  the  chapel.  He  may  be 
influenced.  God  may  have  guided  his  feet  to  us,  we  cannot 
tell.  But  we  can  act — we  can  pray  for  him.  I  do  not  know 
how  long  he  will  stay.  It  may  be  for  only  a  few  days  or  for 
the  whole  summer.  It  does  not  matter.  Use  each  day  well  for 
him.  Each  day  may  be  his  last  with  us.'  I  went  out  from  the 
Reverend  Pere  full  of  enthusiasm,  feeling  that  a  great,  a 
splendid  interest  had  come  into  my  life,  an  interest  such  as  it 
had  never  held  before. 

"  Day  by  day  I  was  with  this  man.  Of  course  there  were 
many  hours  when  we  were  apart,  the  hours  when  I  was  at 
prayer  in  the  chapel  or  occupied  with  study.  But  each  day  we 
passed  much  time  together,  generally  in  the  garden.  Scarcely 
any  visitors  came,  and  none  to  stay,  except,  from  time  to  time, 
a  passing  priest,  and  once  two  young  men  from  Tunis,  one  of 
.whom  had  an  inclination  to  become  a  novice.  And  this  man, 
as  I  have  said,  began  to  show  himself  to  me  with  a  tremendous 
frankness. 

"  Domini,  he  was  suffering  under  what  I  suppose  would  be 
called  an  obsession,  an  immense  domination  such  as  one  human 
being  sometimes  obtains  over  another.  At  that  time  I  had  never 
realised  that  there  were  such  dominations.  Now  I  know  that 
there  are,  and,  Domini,  that  they  can  be  both  terrible  and 
splendid.  He  was  dominated  by  a  woman,  by  a  woman  who 
had  come  into  his  life,  seized  it,  made  it  a  thing  of  glory, 
broken  it.  He  described  to  me  the  dominion  of  this  woman. 
He  told  me  how  she  had  transformed  him.  Till  he  met  her  he 
had  been  passionate  but  free,  his  own  master  through  many 
experiences,  many  intrigues.  He  was  very  frank,  Domini.  He 
did  not  attempt  to  hide  from  me  that  his  life  had  been  evil.  It 
had  been  a  life  devoted  to  the  acquiring  of  experience,  of  all 
possible  experience,  mental  and  bodily.  I  gathered  that  he  had 
shrunk  from  nothing,  avoided  nothing.  His  nature  had 
prompted  him  to  rush  upon  everything,  to  grasp  at  everything. 
At  first  I  was  horrified  at  what  he  told  me.  I  showed  it.  I 
remember  the  second  evening  after  his  arrival  we  were  sitting 
together  in  a  little  arbour  at  the  foot  of  the  vineyard  that 


420  THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 

sloped  up  to  the  cemetery.  It  was  half  an  hour  before  the  last 
service  in  the  chapel.  The  air  was  cool  with  breath  from  the 
distant  sea.  An  intense  calm,  a  heavenly  calm,  I  think,  filled 
the  garden,  floated  away  to  the  cypresses  beside  the  graves, 
along  the  avenue  where  stood  the  Fourteen  Stations  of  the 
Cross.  And  he  told  me,  began  to  tell  me  something  of  his  life. 

"  *  You  thought  to  find  happiness  in  such  an  existence?'  I 
exclaimed,  almost  with  incredulity  I  believe. 

"  He  looked  at  me  with  his  shining  eyes. 

"'Why  not,  Father?  Do  you  think  I  was  a  madman  to 
do  so?'  " 

"  '  Surely.' 

"  *  Why  ?    Is  there  not  happiness  in  knowledge  ?  * 
;' Knowledge  of  evil?' 

:  '  Knowledge  of  all  things  that  exist  in  life.  I  have  never 
sought  for  evil  specially;  I  have  sought  for  everything.  I 
wished  to  bring  everything  under  my  observation,  everything 
connected  with  human  life.' 

"  '  But  human  life,'  I  said  more  quietly,  '  passes  away  from 
this  world.  It  is  a  shadow  in  a  world  of  shadows.' 

*  You  say  that,'  he  answered  abruptly.  '  I  wonder  if  you 
feel  it — feel  it  as  you  feel  my  hand  on  yours.' 

"  He  laid  his  hand  on  mine.  It  was  hot  and  dry  as  if  with 
fever.  Its  touch  affected  me  painfully. 

"  '  Is  that  hand  the  hand  of  a  shadow? '  he  said.  '  Is  this 
body  that  can  enjoy  and  suffer,  that  can  be  in  heaven  or  in 
hell — here — here — a  shadow  ?  ' 

1  Within  a  week  it  might  be  less  than  a  shadow.' 

1 '  And  what  of  that  ?  This  is  now,  this  is  now.  Do  you 
mean  what  you  say  ?  Do  you  truly  feel  that  you  are  a  shadow — 
that  this  garden  is  but  a  world  of  shadows?  I  feel  that  I, 
that  you,  are  terrific  realities,  that  this  garden  is  of  immense 
significance.  Look  at  that  sky.' 

"  The  sky  above  the  cypresses  was  red  with  sunset.  The 
trees  looked  black  beneath  it.  Fireflies  were  flitting  near  the 
arbour  where  we  sat. 

'  That  is  the  sky  that  roofs  what  you  would  have  me  believe 
a  world  of  shadows.  It  is  like  the  blood,  the  hot  blood  that 
flows  and  surges  in  the  veins  of  men — in  our  veins.  Ah,  but 
you  are  a  monk ! ' 

"  The  way  he  said  the  last  words  made  me  feel  suddenly  a 
sense  of  shame,  Domini.  It  was  as  if  a  man  said  to  another 
,man,  '  You  are  not  a  man.'  Can  you — can  you  understand  the 


THE  REVELATION  421 

feeling  I  had  just  then?  Something  hot  and  bitter  was  in  me. 
A  sort  of  desperate  sense  of  nothingness  came  over  me,  as  if  I 
were  a  skeleton  sitting  there  with  flesh  and  blood  and  trying  to 
believe,  and  to  make  it  believe,  that  I,  too,  was  and  had  been 
flesh  and  blood. 

*  Yes,  thank  God,  I  am  a  monk,'  I  answered  quietly. 

"  Something  in  my  tone,  I  think,  made  him  feel  that  he  had 
been  brutal. 

'  I  am  a  brute  and  a  fool/  he  said  vehemently.  '  But  it  is 
always  so  with  me.  I  always  feel  as  if  what  I  want  others  must 
want.  I  always  feel  universal.  It's  folly.  You  have  your, 
vocation,  I  mine.  Yours  is  to  pray,  mine  is  to  live.' 

"  Again  I  was  conscious  of  the  bitterness.  I  tried  to  put  it 
from  me. 

"  '  Prayer  is  life,'  I  answered,  '  to  me,  to  us  who  are  here/ 

'  Prayer !  Can  it  be  ?  Can  it  be  vivid  as  the  life  of  ex- 
perience, as  the  life  that  teaches  one  the  truth  of  men  and 
women,  the  truth  of  creation — joy,  sorrow,  aspiration,  lust, 
ambition  of  the  intellect  and  the  limbs?  Prayer ' 

"  'It  is  time  for  me  to  go,'  I  said.  '•  Are  you  coming  to  the 
chapel?' 

"  *  Yes,'  he  answered  almost  eagerly.  '  I  shall  look  down  on 
you  from  my  lonely  gallery.  Perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  feel 
the  life  of  prayer.' 

"  '  May  it  be  so,'  I  said. 

"  But  I  think  I  spoke  without  confidence,  and  I  know  that 
that  evening  I  prayed  without  impulse,  coldly,  mechanically.. 
The  long,  dim  chapel,  with  its  lines  of  monks  facing  each  other 
in  their  stalls,  seemed  to  me  a  sad  place,  like  a  valley  of  dry 
bones — for  the  first  time,  for  the  first  time. 

"  I  ought  to  have  gone  on  the  morrow  to  the  Reverend  Pere* 
I  ought  to  have  asked  him,  begged  him  to  remove  me  from  the, 
hotellerie.  I  ought  to  have  foreseen  what  was  coming — that 
this  man  had  a  strength  to  live  greater  than  my  strength  to  pray  f 
that  his  strength  might  overcome  mine.  I  began  to  sin  that 
night.  Curiosity  was  alive  in  me,  curiosity  about  the  life  that  I 
had  never  known,  was — so  I  believed,  so  I  thought  I  knew— 
never  to  know. 

"  When  I  came  out  of  the  chapel  into  the  hotellerie  I  met 
our  guest — I  do  not  say  his  name.  What  would  be  the  use? — 
in  the  corridor.  It  was  almost  dark.  There  were  ten  minutes 
before  the  time  for  locking  up  the  door  and  going  to  bed. 
Francois,  the  servant,  was  asleep  under  the  arcade. 


422  THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 

"  '  Shall  we  go  on  to  the  path  and  have  a  last  breath  of  air?  ' 
the  stranger  said. 

"  We  stepped  out  and  walked  slowly  up  and  down. 
'  Do  you  not  feel  the  beauty  of  peace  ?  '  I  asked. 

"  I  wanted  him  to  say  yes.  I  wanted  him  to  tell  me  that 
peace,  tranquillity,  were  beautiful.  He  did  not  reply  for  a 
moment.  I  heard  him  sigh  heavily. 

1  *  If  there  is  peace  in  the  world  at  all,'  he  said  at  length,  '  it 
is  only  to  be  found  with  the  human  being  one  loves.  With  the 
human  being  one  loves  one  might  find  peace  in  hell.' 

"  We  did  not  speak  again  before  we  parted  for  the  night. 

"  Domini,  I  did  not  sleep  at  all  that  night.  It  was  the  first 
of  many  sleepless  nights,  nights  in  which  my  thoughts  travelled 
like  winged  Furies — horrible,  horrible  nights.  In  them  I  strove 
to  imagine  all  the  stranger  knew  by  experience.  It  was  like  a 
ghastly,  physical  effort.  I  strove  to  conceive  of  all  that  he  had 
done — with  the  view,  I  told  myself  at  first,  of  bringing  myself 
to  a  greater  contentment,  of  realising  how  worthless  was  all 
that  I  had  rejected  and  that  he  had  grasped  at.  In  the  dark  I, 
as  it  were,  spread  out  his  map  of  life  and  mine  and  examined 
them.  When,  still  in  the  dark,  I  rose  to  go  to  the  chapel  I  was 
exhausted.  I  felt  unutterably  melancholy.  That  was  at  first. 
Presently  I  felt  an  active,  gnawing  hunger.  But — but — I  have 
not  come  to  that  yet.  This  strange,  new  melancholy  was  the 
forerunner.  It  was  a  melancholy  that  seemed  to  be  caused  by  a 
sense  of  frightful  loneliness  such  as  I  had  never  previously 
experienced.  Till  now  I  had  almost  always  felt  God  with  me, 
and  that  He  was  enough.  Now,  suddenly,  I  began  to  feel  that 
I  was  alone.  I  kept  thinking  of  the  stranger's  words:  'If 
there  is  peace  in  the  world  at  all  it  is  only  to  be  found  with 
the  human  being  one  loves.' 

'  That  is  false,'  I  said  to  myself  again  and  again.  '  Peace 
is  only  to  be  found  by  close  union  with  God.  In  that  I  have 
found  peace  for  many,  many  years.' 

"  I  knew  that  I  had  been  at  peace.  I  knew  that  I  had  been 
happy.  And  yet,  when  I  looked  back  upon  my  life  as  a  novice 
and  a  monk,  I  now  felt  as  if  I  had  been  happy  vaguely,  fool- 
ishly, bloodlessly,  happy  only  because  I  had  been  ignorant  of 
what  real  happiness  was — not  really  happy.  I  thought  of  a  bird 
born  in  a  cage  and  singing  there.  I  had  been  as  that  bird.  And 
then,  when  I  was  in  the  garden,  I  looked  at  the  swallows  wing- 
ing their  way  high  in  the  sunshine,  between  the  garden  trees 
and  the  radiant  blue,  winging  their  way  towards  sea  and  moun- 


THE   REVELATION  423 

tains  and  plains,  and  that  bitterness,  like  an  acid  that  burns 
and  eats  away  fine  metal,  was  once  more  at  my  heart. 

"  But  the  sensation  of  loneliness  was  the  most  terrible  of  all. 
I  compared  union  with  God,  such  as  I  thought  I  had  known, 
with  that  other  union  spoken  of  by  my  guest — union  with  the 
human  being  one  loves.  %I  set  the  two  unions  as  it  were  in 
comparison.  Night  after  night  I  did  this.  Night  after  night 
I  told  over  the  joys  of  union  with  God — joys  which  I  dared  to 
think  I  had  known — and  the  joys  of  union  with  a  loved  human 
being.  On  the  one  side  I  thought  of  the  drawing  near  to  God 
in  prayer,  of  the  sensation  of  approach  that  comes  with  earnest 
prayer,  of  the  feeling  that  ears  are  listening  to  you,  that  the 
great  heart  is  loving  you,  the  great  heart  that  loves  all  living 
things,  that  you  are  being  absolutely  understood,  that  all  you 
cannot  say  is  comprehended,  and  all  you  say  is  received  as  some- 
thing precious.  I  recalled  the  joy,  the  exaltation,  that  I  had 
known  when  I  prayed.  That  was  union  with  God.  In  such 
union  I  had  sometimes  felt  that  the  world,  with  all  that  it  con- 
tained of  wickedness,  suffering  and  death,  was  utterly  devoid 
of  power  to  sadden  or  alarm  the  humblest  human  being  who 
was  able  to  draw  near  to  God. 

"  I  had  had  a  conquering  feeling — not  proud — as  of  one 
upborne,  protected  for  ever,  lifted  to  a  region  in  which  no 
enemy  could  ever  be,  no  sadness,  no  faint  anxiety  even. 

"  Then  I  strove  to  imagine — and  this,  Domini,  was  surely  a 
deliberate  sin — exactly  what  it  must  be  to  be  united  with  a  be- 
loved human  being.  I  strove  and  I  was  able.  For  not  only 
did  instinct  help  me,  instinct  that  had  been  long  asleep,  but — I 
have  told  you  that  the  stranger  was  suffering  under  an  obsession, 
a  terrible  dominion.  This  dominion  he  described  to  me  with 
an  openness  that  perhaps — that  indeed  I  believe — he  would  not 
have  shown  had  I  not  been  a  monk.  He  looked  upon  me  as  a 
being  apart,  neither  man  nor  woman,  a  being  without  sex. 
I  am  sure  he  did.  And  yet  he  was  immensely  intelligent.  But 
he  knew  that  I  had  entered  the  monastery  as  a  novice,  that  I 
had  been  there  through  all  my  adult  life.  And  then  my  manner 
probably  assisted  him  in  his  illusion.  For  I  gave — I  believe — no 
sign  of  the  change  that  was  taking  place  within  me  under  his 
influence.  I  seemed  to  be  calm,  detached,  even  in  my  sympathy 
for  his  suffering.  For  he  suffered  frightfully.  This  woman  he 
loved  was  a  Parisian,  he  told  me.  He  described  her  beauty  to 
me,  as  if  in  order  to  excuse  himself  for  having  become  the  slave 
to  her  he  was.  I  suppose  she  was  very  beautiful.  He  said  that 


424  THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 

she  had  a  physical  charm  so  intense  that  few  men  could  resist 
it,  that  she  was  famous  throughout  Europe  for  it.  He  told  me 
that  she  was  not  a  good  woman.  I  gathered  that  she  lived 
for  pleasure,  admiration,  that  she  had  allowed  many  men  to 
love  her  before  he  knew  her.  But  she  had  loved  him  genuinely. 
She  was  not  a  very  young  woman,  and  she  was  not  a  married 
woman.  He  said  that  she  was  a  woman  men  loved  but  did  not 
marry,  a  woman  who  was  loved  by  the  husbands  of  married 
women,  a  woman  to  marry  whom  would  exclude  a  man  from 
the  society  of  good  women.  She  had  never  lived,  or  thought  of 
living,  for  one  man  till  he  came  into  her  life.  Nor  had  he  ever 
dreamed  of  living  for  one  woman.  He  had  lived  to  gain  experi- 
ence; she  too.  But  when  he  met  her — knowing  thoroughly  all 
she  was — all  other  women  ceased  to  exist  for  him.  He  became 
her  slave.  Then  jealousy  awoke  in  him,  jealousy  of  all  the  men 
who  had  been  in  her  life,  who  might  be  in  her  life  again.  He 
was  tortured  by  loving  such  a  woman — a  woman  who  had  be- 
longed to  many,  who  would  no  doubt  in  the  future  belong  to 
others.  For  despite  the  fact  that  she  loved  him  he  told  me  that 
at  first  he  had  no  illusions  about  her.  He  knew  the  world 
too  well  for  that,  and  he  cursed  the  fate  that  had  bound  him 
body  and  soul  to  what  he  called  a  courtesan.  Even  the  fact  that 
she  loved  him  at  first  did  not  blind  him  to  the  effect  upon  char- 
acter that  her  life  must  inevitably  have  had.  She  had  dwelt  in 
an  atmosphere  of  lies,  he  said,  and  to  lie  was  nothing  to  her. 
Any  original  refinement  of  feeling  as  regards  human  relations 
that  she  might  have  had  had  become  dulled,  if  it  had  not  been 
destroyed.  At  first  he  blindly,  miserably,  resigned  himself  to 
this.  He  said  to  himself,  '  Fate  has  led  me  to  love  this  sort  of 
woman.  I  must  accept  her  as  she  is,  with  all  her  defects, 
with  her  instinct  for  treachery,  with  her  passion  for  the  admira- 
tion of  the  world,  with  her  incapability  for  being  true  to  an 
ideal,  or  for  isolating  herself  in  the  adoration  of  one  man.  I 
cannot  get  away  from  her.  She  has  me  fast.  I  cannot  live 
without  her.  Then  I  must  bear  the  torture  that  jealousy  of 
her  will  certainly  bring  me  in  silence.  I  must  conceal  it.  I 
must  try  to  kill  it.  I  must  make  the  best  of  whatever  she  will 
give  me,  knowing  that  she  can  never,  with  her  nature  and  her 
training,  be  exclusively  mine  as  a  good  woman  might  be/  This 
he  said  to  himself.  This  plan  of  conduct  he  traced  for  him- 
self. But  he  soon  found  that  he  was  not  strong  enough  to  keep 
to  it.  His  jealousy  was  a  devouring  fire,  and  he  could  not  con- 
ceal it.  Domini,  he  described  to  me  minutely  the  effect  of 


THE  REVELATION  425 

jealousy  in  a  human  heart.  I  had  never  imagined  what  it  was, 
and,  when  he  described  it,  I  felt  as  if  I  looked  down  into  a 
bottomless  pit  lined  with  the  flames  of  hell.  By  the  depth  of 
that  pit  I  measured  the  depth  of  his  passion  for  this  woman, 
and  I  gained  an  idea  of  what  human  love — not  the  best  sort  of 
human  love,  but  still  genuine,  intense  love  of  some  kind — could 
be.  Of  this  human  love  I  thought  at  night,  putting  it  in  com- 
parison with  the  love  God's  creature  can  have  for  God.  And 
my  sense  of  loneliness  increased,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  had  always 
been  lonely.  Does  this  seem  strange  to  you?  In  the  love  of 
God  was  calm,  peace,  rest,  a  lying  down  of  the  soul  in  the 
Almighty  arms.  In  the  other  love  described  to  me  was  rest- 
lessness, agitation,  torture,  the  soul  spinning  like  an  atom 
driven  by  winds,  the  heart  devoured  as  by  a  disease,  a  cancer. 
On  the  one  hand  was  a  beautiful  trust,  on  the  other  a  ceaseless 
agony  of  doubt  and  terror.  And  yet  I  came  to  feel  as  if  the  one 
were  unreal  in  comparison  with  the  other,  as  if  in  the  one 
were  a  loneliness,  in  the  other  a  fierce  companionship.  I  thought 
of  the  Almighty  arms,  Domini,  and  of  the  arms  of  a  woman, 
and — Domini,  I  longed  to  have  known,  if  only  once,  the  press- 
ure of  a  woman's  arms  about  my  neck,  about  my  breast,  the 
touch  of  a  woman's  hand  upon  my  heart. 

"  And  of  all  this  I  never  spoke  at  confession.  I  committed 
the  deadly  sin  of  keeping  back  at  confession  all  that."  He 
stopped.  Then  he  said,  "  Till  the  end  my  confessions  were 
incomplete,  were  false. 

"  The  stranger  told  me  that  as.  his  love  for  this  woman  grew 
he  found  it  impossible  to  follow  the  plan  he  had  traced  for  him- 
self of  shutting  his  eyes  to  the  sight  of  other  eyes  admiring, 
desiring  her,  of  shutting  his  ears  to  the  voices  that  whispered, 
'  This  it  will  always  be,  for  others  as  well  as  for  you.*  He 
found  it  impossible.  His  jealousy  was  too  importunate,  and 
he  resolved  to  make  any  effort  to  keep  her  for  himself  alone. 
He  knew  she  had  love  for  him,  but  he  knew  that  love  would 
not  necessarily,  or  even  probably,  keep  her  entirely  faithful  to 
him.  She  thought  too  little  of  passing  intrigues.  To  her  they 
seemed  trifles,  meaningless,  unimportant.  She  told  him  so, 
when  he  spoke  his  jealousy.  She  said,  '  I  love  you.  I  do  not 
love  these  other  men.  They  are  in  my  life  for  a  moment  only.' 

"  'And  that  moment  plunges  me  into  hell ! '  he  said. 

"  He  told  her  he  could  not  bear  it,  that  it  was  impossn 
ble,  that  she  must  belong  to  him  entirely  and  solely.  He 
asked  her  to  marry  him.  She  was  surprised,  touched.  She* 


426 


THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 


understood  what  a  sacrifice  such  a  marriage  v.ould  be  to  a 
man  in  his  position.  He  was  a  man  of  good  birth.  His  re- 
quest, his  vehement  insistence  on  it,  made  her  understand  his 
love  as  she  had  not  understood  it  before.  Yet  she  hesitated. 
For  so  long  had  she  been  accustomed  to  a  life  of  freedom,  of 
changing  amours,  that  she  hesitated  to  put  her  neck  under  the 
yoke  of  matrimony.  She  understood  thoroughly  his  character 
and  his  aim  in  marrying  her.  She  knew  that  as  his  wife  she 
must  bid  an  eternal  farewell  to  the  life  she  had  known.  And 
it  was  a  life  that  had  become  a  habit  to  her,  a  life  that  she  was 
fond  of.  For  she  was  enormously  vain,  and  she  was  a — she 
was  a  very  physical  woman,  subject  to  physical  caprices.  There 
are  things  that  I  pass  over,  Domini,  which  would  explain  still 
more  her  hesitation.  He  knew  what  caused  it,  and  again  he 
was  tortured.  But  he  persisted.  And  at  last  he  overcame. 
She  consented  to  marry  him.  They  were  engaged.  Domini,  1 
need  not  tell  you  much  more,  only  this  fact — which  had  driven 
him  from  France,  destroyed  his  happiness,  brought  him  to  the 
monastery.  Shortly  before  the  marriage  was  to  take  place  he 
discovered  that,  while  they  were  engaged,  she  had  yielded  to 
the  desires  of  an  old  admirer  who  had  come  to  bid  her  farewell 
and  to  wish  her  joy  in  her  new  life.  He  was  tempted,  he  said, 
to  kill  her.  But  he  governed  himself  and  left  her.  He 
travelled.  He  came  to  Tunis.  He  came  to  La  Trappe.  He 
saw  the  peace  there.  He  thought,  '  Can  I  seize  it  ?  Can  it  do 
something  for  me  ?  '  He  saw  me.  He  thought,  '  I  shall  not 
be  quite  alone.  This  monk — he  has  lived  always  in  peace, 
he  has  never  known  the  torture  of  wometi.  Might  not  inter- 
course with  him  help  me?' 

"  Such  was  his  history,  such  was  the  history  poured,  with 
infinite  detail  that  I  have  not  told  you,  day  by  day,  into  my 
ears.  It  was  the  history,  you  see,  of  a  passion  that  was  mainly 
physical.  I  will  not  say  entirely.  I  do  not  know  whether  any 
great  passion  can  be  entirely  physical.  But  it  was  the  history 
of  the  passion  of  one  body  for  another  body,  and  he  did  not 
attempt  to  present  it  to  me  as  anything  else.  This  man  made 
me  understand  the  meaning  of  the  body.  I  had  never  under- 
stood it  before.  I  had  never  suspected  the  immensity  of  the 
meaning  there  is  in  physical  things.  I  had  never  comprehended 
the  flesh.  Now  I  comprehended  it.  Loneliness  rushed  upon 
me,  devoured  me — loneliness  of  the  body.  '  God  is  a  spirit 
and  those  that  worship  him  must  worship  him  in  spirit/  Now 
I  felt  that  to  worship  in  spirit  was  not  enough.  I  even  felt 


THE  REVELATION  427 

that  it  was  scarcely  anything.  Again  I  thought  of  my  life 
as  the  life  of  a  skeleton  in  a  world  of  skeletons.  Again  the 
chapel  was  as  a  valley  of  dry  bones.  It  was  a  ghastly  sensation. 
I  was  plunged  in  the  void.  I — I — I  can't  tell  you  my  exact 
sensation,  but  it  was  as  if  I  was  the  loneliest  creature  in  the 
whole  of  the  universe,  and  as  if  I  need  not  have  been  lonely, 
as  if  I,  in  my  ignorance  and  fatuity,  had  selected  loneliness 
thinking  it  was  the  happiest  fate. 

"  And  yet  you  will  say  I  was  face  to  face  with  this  man's 
almost  frantic  misery.  I  was,  and  it  made  no  difference.  I 
envied  him,  even  in  his  present  state.  He  wanted  to  gain  con- 
solation from  me  if  that  were  possible.  Oh,  the  irony  of  my 
consoling  him!  In  secret  I  laughed  at  it  bitterly.  When  I 
strove  to  console  him  I  knew  that  I  was  an  incarnate  lie.  He 
had  told  me  the  meaning  of  the  body  and,  by  so  doing,  had 
snatched  from  me  the  meaning  of  the  spirit.  And  then  he 
said  to  me,  '  Make  me  feel  the  meaning  of  the  spirit.  If  I 
can  grasp  that  I  may  find  comfort.'  He  called  upon  me  to  give 
him  what  I  no  logger  had — the  peace  of  God  that  passeth 
understanding.  Domini,  can  you  feel  at  all  what  that  was  to 
me?  Can  you  realise?  Can  you — is  it  any  wonder  that  I 
could  do  nothing  for  him,  for  him  who  had  done  such  a  fright- 
ful thing  for  me?  Is  it  any  wonder?  Soon  he  realised  that  he 
would  not  find  peace  with  me  in  the  garden.  Yet  he  stayed 
on.  Why?  He  did  not  know  where  to  go,  what  to  do.  Life 
offered  him  nothing  but  horror.  His  love  of  experiences  was- 
dead.  His  love  of  life  had  completely  vanished.  He  saw  the 
worldly  life  as  a  nightmare,  yet  he  had  nothing  to  put  in  the 
place  of  it.  And  in  the  monastery  he  was  ceaselessly  tormented 
by  jealousy.  Ceaselessly  his  mind  was  at  work  about  this 
woman,  picturing  her  in  her  life  of  change,  of  intrigue,  of  new 
lovers,  of  new  hopes  and  aims  in  which  he  had  no  part,  in  which 
his  image  was  being  blotted  out,  doubtless  from  her  memory 
even.  He  suffered,  he  suffered  as  few  suffer.  But  I  think  I 
suffered  more.  The  melancholy  was  driven  on  into  a  gnawing 
hunger,  the  gnawing  hunger  of  the  flesh  wishing  to  have  lived, 
wishing  to  live,  wishing  to — to  know. 

"  Domini,  to  you  I  can't  say  more  of  that — to  you  whom  I — 
whom  I  love  with  spirit  and  flesh.  I  will  come  to  the  end,  to 
the  incident  which  made  the  body  rise  up,  strike  down  the 
soul,  trample  out  over  it  into  the  world  like  a  wolf  that  was 
starving. 

"  One  day  the  Reverend  Pere  gave  me  a  special  permission 


428  THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 

to  walk  with  our  visitor  beyond  the  monastery  walls  towards 
the  sea.  Such  a  permission  was  an  event  in  my  life.  It  excited 
me  more  than  you  can  imagine.  I  found  that  the  stranger  had 
begged  him  to  let  me  come. 

"  '  Our  guest  is  very  fond  of  you,'  the  Reverend  Pere  said  to 
me.  '  I  think  if  any  human  being  can  bring  him  to  a  calmer, 
happier  state  of  mind  and  spirit,  you  can.  You  have  obtained  a 
good  influence  over  him.' 

"  Domini,  when  the  Reverend  Pere  spoke  to  me  thus  my 
mouth  was  suddenly  contracted  in  a  smile.  Devils  smile,  I 
think.  I  put  up  my  hand  to  my  face.  I  saw  the  Reverend 
Pere  looking  at  me  with  a  dawning  of  astonishment  in  his 
kind,  grave  eyes,  and  I  controlled  myself  at  once.  But  I  said 
nothing.  I  could  not  say  anything,  and  I  went  out  from  the 
parlour  quickly,  hot  with  a  sensation  of  shame. 
*  You  are  coming  ?  '  the  stranger  said. 

"  '  Yes,'  I  answered. 

"  It  was  a  fiery  day  of  late  June.  Africa  was  bathed  in  a 
glare  of  light  that  hurt  the  eyes.  I  went  into  my  cell  and  put 
on  a  pair  of  blue  glasses  and  my  wide  straw  hat,  the  hat  in 
which  I  formerly  used  to  work  in  the  fields.  When  I  came 
out  my  guest  was  standing  on  the  garden  path.  He  was  swing- 
ing a  stick  in  one  hand.  The  other  hand,  which  hung  down 
by  his  side,  was  twitching  nervously.  In  the  glitter  of  the  sun 
his  face  looked  ghastly.  In  his  eyes  there  seemed  to  be  terrors 
watching  without  hope. 

'  You  are  ready  ?  '  he  said.     *  Let  us  go.' 

"  We  set  off,  walking  quickly. 

'  Movement — pace — sometimes  that  does  a  little  good,'  he 
said.  *  If  one  can  exhaust  the  body  the  mind  sometimes  lies 
almost  still  for  a  moment.  If  it  would  only  lie  still  for  ever.' 

"  I  said  nothing.  I  could  say  nothing.  For  my  fever  was 
surely  as  his  fever. 

'  Where  are  we  going  ?  '  he  asked  when  we  reached  the 
little  house  of  the  keeper  of  the  gate  by  the  cemetery. 

'  We  cannot  walk  in  the  sun,'  I  answered.  '  Let  us  go 
into  the  eucalyptus  woods.' 

"  The  first  Trappists  had  planted  forests  of  eucalyptus  to 
keep  off  the  fever  that  sometimes  comes  in  the  African  summer. 
We  made  our  way  along  a  tract  of  open  land  and  came  into  a 
deep  wood.  Here  we  began  to  walk  more  slowly.  The  wood 
was  empty  of  men.  The  hot  silence  was  profound.  He  took 
off  his  white  helmet  and  walked  on,  carrying  it  in  his  hand. 


THE   REVELATION  429 

Not  till  we  were  far  in  the  forest  did  he  speak.    Then  he  said, 
'  Father,  I  cannot  struggle  on  much  longer.' 
"  He  spoke  abruptly,  in  a  hard  voice. 
"  '  You  must  try  to  gain  courage,'  I  said. 
"  '  From  where  ?  '  he  exclaimed.     '  No,  no,  don't  say  from 
God.     If  there  is  a  God  he  hates  me.' 

"  When  he  said  that  I  felt  as  if  my  soul  shuddered,  hearing 

a  frightful  truth  spoken  about  itself.     My  lips  were  dry.     My 

heart  seemed  to  shrivel  up,  but  I  made  an  effort  and  answered: 

"  '  God  hates  no  being  whom  he  has  created.' 

'  How  can  you  know?     Almost  every  man,  perhaps  every 

living  man,  hates  someone.     Why  not ?' 

'  To  compare  God  with  a  man  is  blasphemous,'  I  answered. 
"'Aren't  wre  made  in  his  image?  Father,  it's  as  I  said — I 
can't  struggle  on  much  longer.  I  shall  have  to  end  it.  I  wish 
now — I  often  wish  that  I  had  yielded  to  my  first  impulse  and 
killed  her.  What  is  she  doing  now  ?  What  is  she  doing  now — 
at  this  moment  ?  ' 

"  He  stood  still  and  beat  with  his  stick  on  the  ground. 

'  You  don't  know  the  infinite  torture  there  is  in  knowing 
that,  far  away,  she  is  still  living  that  cursed  life,  that  she  is 
free  to  continue  the  acts  of  which  her  existence  has  been  full. 

Every  moment  I  am  imagining — I  am  seeing ' 

"  He  forced  his  stick  deep  into  the  ground. 
"  '  If  I  had  killed  her,'  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  '  at  least  I 
should  know  that  she  was  sleeping — alone — there — there — 
under  the  earth.  I  should  know  that  her  body  was  dissolved 
into  dust,  that  her  lips  could  kiss  no  man,  that  her  arms  could 
never  hold  another  as  they  have  held  me ! ' 

"'Hush!'  I  said  sternly.     'You  deliberately  torture  your- 
self and  me.'    He  glanced  up  sharply. 
'  You !    What  do  you  mean  ?  ' 

'  I  must  not  listen  to  such  things,'  I  said.  '  They  are  bad 
for  you  and  for  me.' 

'  How  can  they  be  bad  for  you — a  monk  ?  ' 
'  Such  talk  is  evil — evil  for  everyone.' 
'  I'll  be  silent  then.     I'll  go  into  the  silence.     I'll  go  soon.' 
"  I  understood  that  he  thought  of  putting  an  end  to  him- 
self. 

1  There  are  few  men,'  I  said,  speaking  with  deliberation, 
with  effort,  '  who  do  not  feel  at  some  period  of  life  that  all  is 
over  for  them,  that  there  is  nothing  to  hope  for,  that  happiness 
is  a  dream  which  will  visit  them  no  more.' 


430  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  c  Have  you  ever  felt  like  that  ?  You  speak  of  it  calmly, 
but  have  you  ever  experienced  it  ?  ' 

"I  hesitated.    Then  I  said: 

"  '  Yes.' 

"  '  You,  who  have  been  a  monk  for  so  many  years ! ' 

" '  Yes.' 

"  '  Since  you  have  been  here? ' 
'  Yes,  since  then.' 

" '  And  you  would  tell  me  that  the  feeling  passed,  that  hope 
came  again,  and  the  dream  as  you  call  it? ' 

"  '  I  would  say  that  what  has  lived  in  a  heart  can  die,  as  we 
who  live  in  this  world  shall  die.' 

"  *  Ah,  that — the  sooner  the  better!  But  you  are  wrong. 
Sometimes  a  thing  lives  in  the  heart  that  cannot  die  so  long  as 
the  heart  beats.  Such  is  my  passion,  my  torture.  Don't  you,  a 
monk — don't  dare  to  say  to  me  that  this  love  of  mine  could 
die.' 

"'Don't  you  wish  it  to  die?'  I  asked.  *  You  say  it  tor- 
tures you.' 

"  '  Yes.  But  no — no — I  don't  wish  it  to  die.  I  could  never 
wish  that.' 

"  I  looked  at  him,  I  believe,  with  a  deep  astonishment. 
' '  Ah,  you  don't  understand ! '  he  said.     '  You  don't  under- 
stand.   At  all  costs  one  must  keep  it — one's  love.    With  it  I  am 
— as  you  see.     But  without  it — man,  without  it,  I  should  be 
nothing — no  more  than  that.' 

"  He  picked  up  a  rotten  leaf,  held  it  to  me,  threw  it  down  on 
the  ground.  I  hardly  looked  at  it.  He  had  said  to  me: 
*  Man! '  That  word,  thus  said  by  him,  seemed  to  me  to  mark 
the  enormous  change  in  me,  to  indicate  that  it  was  visible  to 
the  eyes  of  another,  the  heart  of  another.  I  had  passed  from 
the  monk — the  sexless  being — to  the  man.  He  set  me  beside 
himself,  spoke  of  me  as  if  I  were  as  himself.  An  intense  ex- 
citement surged  up  in  me.  I  think — I  don't  know  what  I 
should  have  said — done — but  at  that  moment  a  boy,  who  acted 
as  a  servant  at  the  monastery,  came  running  towards  us  with 
a  letter  in  his  hand. 

| '  It  is  for  Monsieur ! '  he  said.    '  It  was  left  at  the  gate.' 
' '  A  letter  for  me ! '  the  stranger  said. 

"  He  held  out  his  hand  and  took  it  indifferently.  The  boy 
gave  it,  and  turning,  went  away  through  the  wood.  Then  the 
stranger  glanced  at  the  envelope.  Domini,  I  wish  I  could  make 
you  see  what  I  saw  then,  the  change  that  came.  I  can't.  There 


THE  REVELATION  431 

are  things  the  eyes  must  see.  The  tongue  can't  tell  them.  The 
ghastly  whiteness  went  out  of  his  face.  A  hot  flood  of  scarlet 
rushed  over  it  up  to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  His  hands  and  his 
whole  body  began  to  tremble  violently.  His  eyes,  which  were 
fixed  on  the  envelope,  shone  with  an  expression — it  was  like  all 
the  excitement  in  the  world  condensed  into  two  sparks.  He 
dropped  his  stick  and  sat  down  on  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  fell  down 
almost. 

"  '  Father! '  he  muttered,  '  it's  not  been  through  the  post — 
it's  not  been  through  the  post ! ' 

"  I  did  not  understand. 
'  What  do  you  mean  ?  '  I  asked. 
1  What ' 

"  The  flush  left  his  face.  He  turned  deadly  white  again.  He 
held  out  the  letter. 

I  Read  it  for  me ! '  he  said.     '  I  can't  see — I  can't  see  any- 
thing.' 

"  I  took  the  letter.  He  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands.  I 
opened  it  and  read : 

"  '  GRAND  HOTEL,  TUNIS. 

I 1  have  found  out  where  you  are.     I  have  come.     Forgive 
me — if  you  can.     I  will  marry  you — or  I  will  live  with  you.    As 
you  please;    but  I  cannot  live  without  you.     I  know  women 
are  not  admitted  to  the  monastery.     Come  out  on  the  road  that 
leads  to  Tunis.     I  am  there.     At  least  come  for  a  moment  and 
speak  to  me.  VERONIQUE/ 

"  Domini,  I  read  this  slowly;  and  it  was  as  if  I  read  my  own 
fate.  When  I  had  finished  he  got  up.  He  was  still  pale  as 
ashes  and  trembling. 

"  '  Which  is  the  way  to  the  road  ?  '  he  said.     '  Do  you  know  ?  ' 
'  Yes.' 
1  'Take  me  there.     Give  me  your  arm,  Father/ 

"  He  took  it,  leaned  on  it  heavily.  We  walked  through  the 
wood  towards  the  highroad.  I  had  almost  to  support  him.  The 
way  seemed  long.  I  felt  tired,  sick,  as  if  I  could  scarcely  move, 
as  if  I  were  bearing — as  if  I  were  bearing  a  cross  that  was  too 
heavy  for  me.  We  came  at  last  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  trees 
into  the  glare  of  the  sun.  A  flat  field  divided  us  from  the  white 
road. 

1  Is  there — is  there  a  carriage  ?  '  he  whispered  in  my  ear. 

"  I  looked  across  the  field  and  saw  on  the  road  a  carriage 
waiting. 


432  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  '  Yes,'  I  said. 

"  I  stopped,  and  tried  to  take  his  arm  from  mine. 

"'Go,'  I  said.     'Go  on!' 

"  '  I  can't.     Come  with  me,  Father.' 

"  We  went  on  in  the  blinding  sun.  I  looked  down  on  the  dry 
earth  as  I  walked.  Presently  I  saw  at  my  feet  the  white  dust  of 
the  road.  At  the  same  time  I  heard  a  woman's  cry.  The 
stranger  took  his  arm  violently  from  mine. 

"  '  Father,'  he  said.     *  Good-bye— God  bless  you! ' 

"  He  was  gone.  I  stood  there.  In  a  moment  I  heard  a 
roll  of  wheels.  Then  I  looked  up.  I  saw  a  man  and  a  woman 
together,  Domini.  Their  faces  were  like  angels'  faces — with 
happiness.  The  dust  flew  up  in  the  sunshine.  The  wheels  died 
away — I  was  alone. 

"  Presently — I  think  after  a  very  long  time — I  turned  and 
went  back  to  the  monastery.  Domini,  that  night  I  left  the 
monastery.  I  was  as  one  mad.  The  wish  to  live  had  given 
place  to  the  determination  to  live.  I  thought  of  nothing  else. 
In  the  chapel  that  evening  I  heard  nothing — I  did  not  see  the 
monks.  I  did  not  attempt  to  pray,  for  I  knew  that  I  was  going. 
To  go  was  an  easy  matter  for  me.  I  slept  alone  in  the  hotellerie, 
of  which  I  had  the  key.  When  it  was  night  I  unlocked  the 
door.  I  walked  to  the  cemetery — between  the  Stations  of  the 
Cross.  Domini,  I  did  not  see  them.  In  the  cemetery  was  a 
ladder,  as  I  told  you. 

"  Just  before  dawn  I  reached  my  brother's  house  outside  of 
Tunis,  not  far  from  the  Bardo.  I  knocked.  My  brother  him- 
self came  down  to  know  who  was  there.  He,  as  I  told  you,  was 
without  religion,  and  had  always  hated  my  being  a  monk.  I  told 
him  all,  without  reserve.  I  said,  '  Help  me  to  go  away.  Let  me 
go  anywhere — alone.'  He  gave  me  clothes,  money.  I  shaved 
off  my  beard  and  moustache.  I  shaved  my  head,  so  that  the 
tonsure  was  no  longer  visible.  In  the  afternoon  of  that  day  I 
left  Tunis.  I  was  let  loose  into  life.  Domini — Domini,  I  won't 
tell  you  where  I  wandered  till  I  came  to  the  desert,  till  I  met 
you. 

"  I  was  let  loose  into  life,  but,  with  my  freedom,  the  wish 
to  live  seemed  to  die  in  me.  I  was  afraid  of  life.  I  was 
haunted  by  terrors.  I  had  been  a  monk  so  long  that  I  did  not 
'.know  how  to  live  as  other  men.  I  did  not  live,  I  never  lived — 
till  I  met  you.  And  then — then  I  realised  what  life  may  be. 
And  then,  too,  I  realised  fully  what  I  was.  I  struggled,  I 
fought  myself.  You  know — now,  if  you  look  back,  I  think  you 


THE   REVELATION  433 

know  that  I  tried — sometimes,  often — I  tried  to — to — I  tried 
, )) 

His  voice  broke. 

"  That  last  day  in  the  garden  I  thought  that  I  had  conquered 
myself,  and  it  was  in  that  moment  that  I  fell  for  ever.  When  I 
knew  you  loved  me  I  could  fight  no  more.  Do  you  understand  ? 
You  have  seen  me,  you  have  lived  with  me,  you  have  divined  my 
misery.  But  don't — don't  think,  Domini,  that  it  ever  came  from 
you.  It  was  the  consciousness  of  my  lie  to  you,  my  lie  to  God, 
that — that — I  can't  go  on — I  can't  tell  you — I  can't  tell  you — • 
you  know." 

He  was  silent.  Domini  said  nothing,  did  not  move.  He  did 
not  look  at  her,  but  her  silence  seemed  to  terrify  him.  He  drew 
back  from  it  sharply  and  turned  to  the  desert.  He  stared  across 
the  vast  spaces  lit  up  by  the  moon.  Still  she  did  not  move. 

«  I'll  go— I'll  go!  "  he  muttered. 

And  he  stepped  forward.     Then  Domini  spoke. 

''"Boris!  "she  said. 

He  stopped. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  murmured  hoarsely. 

"  Boris,  now  at  last  you — you  can  pray." 

He  looked  at  her  as  if  awe-stricken. 

"  Pray !  "  he  whispered.     "  You  tell  me  I  can  pray — now !  " 

"  Now  at  last." 

She  went  into  the  tent  and  left  him  alone.  He  stood  where 
he  was  for  a  moment.  He  knew  that,  in  the  tent,  she  was  pray- 
ing. He  stood,  trying  to  listen  to  her  prayer.  Then,  with  an 
uncertain  hand,  he  felt  in  his  breast.  He  drew  out  the  wooden 
crucifix.  He  bent  down  his  head,  touched  it  with  his  lips,  and 
fell  upon  his  knees  in  the  desert. 

The  music  had  ceased  in  the  city.    There  was  a  great  silence. 


BOOK   VI 

THE  JOURNEY  BACK 
CHAPTER   XXVII 

THE  good  priest  of  Amara,  strolling  by  chance  at  the 
dinner-hour  of  the  following  day  towards  the  camp 
of  the  hospitable  strangers,  was  surprised  and  sad- 
dened to  find  only  the  sand-hill  strewn  with  debris. 
The    tents,    the    camels,    the    mules,    the    horses — 
all  were  gone.     No  servants  greeted  him.     No  cook  was  busy. 
No  kind  hostess  bade  him  come  in   and  stay  to  dine.     For- 
lornly he  glanced  around  and  made  inquiry.     An  Arab  told 
him  that  in  the  morning  the  camp  had  been  struck  and  ere  noon 
was  far  on  its  way  towards  the  north.    The  priest  had  been  on 
horseback  to  an  neighbouring  oasis,  so  had  heard  nothing  of  this 
flitting.     He  asked  its  explanation,  and  was  told  a  hundred  lies. 
The  one  most  often  repeated  was  to  the  effect  that  Monsieur, 
the  husband  of  Madame,  was  overcome  by  the  heat,  and  that  for 
this  reason  the  travellers  were  making  their  way  towards  the 
cooler  climate  that  lay  beyond  the  desert. 

As  he  heard  this  a  sensation  of  loneliness  came  to  the  priest. 
His  usually  cheerful  countenance  was  overcast  with  gloom.  For 
a  moment  he  loathed  his  fate  in  the  sands  and  sighed  for  the 
fleshpots  of  civilisation.  With  his  white  umbrella  spread  above 
his  helmet  he  stood  still  and  gazed  towards  the  north  across  the 
vast  spaces  that  were  lemon-yellow  in  the  sunset.  He  fancied 
that  on  the  horizon  he  saw  faintly  a  cloud  of  sand  grains  whirl- 
ing, and  imagined  it  stirred  up  by  the  strangers'  caravan.  Then 
he  thought  of  the  rich  lands  of  the  Tell,  of  the  olive  groves  of 
Tunis,  of  the  blue  Mediterranean,  of  France,  his  country  which 
he  had  not  seen  for  many  years.  He  sighed  profoundly. 

"  Happy  people,"  he  thought  to  himself.  "  Rich,  free,  able 
to  do  as  they  like,  to  go  where  they  will !  Why  was  I  born  to 
live  in  the  sand  and  to  be  alone  ?  " 

434 


THE   JOURNEY    BACK  435 

He  was  moved  by  envy.  But  then  he  remembered  his  inter- 
course with  Androvsky  on  the  previous  day. 

"  After  all,"  he  thought  more  comfortably,  "  he  did  not  look 
a  happy  man !  "  And  he  took  himself  to  task  for  his  sin  of 
envy,  and  strolled  to  the  inn  by  the  fountain  where  he  paid  his 
pension.  « 

The  same  day,  in  the  house  of  the  marabout  of  Beni-Hassan, 
Count  Anteoni  received  a  letter  brought  from  Amara  by  an 
Arab.  It  was  as  follows: 

"  AMARA. 

"Mv  DEAR  FRIEND:  Good-bye.  We  are  just  leaving.  I 
had  expected  to  be  here  longer,  but  we  must  go.  We  are  return- 
ing to  the  north  and  shall  not  penetrate  farther  into  the  desert. 
I  shall  think  of  you,  and  of  your  journey  on  among  the  people 
of  your  faith.  You  said  to  me,  when  we  sat  in  the  tent  door, 
that  now  you  could  pray  in  the  desert.  Pray  in  the  desert  for 
us.  And  one  thing  more.  If  you  never  return  to  Beni-Mora, 
and  your  garden  is  to  pass  into  other  hands,  don't  let  it  go  into 
the  hands  of  a  stranger.  I  could  not  bear  that.  Let  it  come 
to  me.  At  any  price  you  name.  Forgive  me  for  writing  thus. 
Perhaps  you  will  return,  or  perhaps,  even  if  you  do  not,  you  will 
keep  your  garden. — Your  Friend,  DOMINI/' 

In  a  postscript  was  an  address  which  would  always  find  her. 

Count  Anteoni  read  this  letter  two  or  three  times  carefully, 
with  a  grave  face. 

"  Why  did  she  not  put  Domini  Androvsky?  "  he  said  to  him- 
self. He  locked  the  letter  in  a  drawer.  All  that  night  he  was 
haunted  by  thoughts  of  the  garden.  Again  and  again  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  stood  with  Domini  beside  the  white  wall  and  saw, 
in  the  burning  distance  of  the  desert,  at  the  call  of  the  Mueddin, 
the  Arabs  bowing  themselves  in  prayer,  and  the  man — the  man 
to  whom  now  she  had  bound  herself  by  the  most  holy  tie — fleeing 
from  prayer  as  if  in  horror. 

"  But  it  was  written,"  he  murmured  to  himself.  "  It  was 
written  in  the  sand  and  in  fire :  '  The  fate  of  every  man  have 
we  bound  about  his  neck.' ' 

In  the  dawn  when,  turning  towards  the  rising  sun,  he  prayed, 
he  remembered  Domini  and  her  words:  "  Pray  in  the  desert  for 
us."  And  in  the  Garden  of  Allah  he  prayed  to  Allah  for  her, 
and  for  Androvsky. 

Meanwhile  the  camp  had  been  struck,  and  the  first  stage  of 
the  journey  northward,  the  journey  back,  had  been  accomplished. 


436  THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 

Domini  had  given  the  order  of  departure,  but  she  had  first 
spoken  with  Androvsky. 

After  his  narrative,  and  her  words  that  followed  it,  he  did 
not  come  into  the  tent.  She  did  not  ask  him  to.  She  did  not 
see  him  in  the  moonlight  beyond  the  tent,  or  when  the  moon- 
light waned  before  the  coming  of  the  dawn.  She  was  upon  her 
knees,  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands,  striving  as  surely  few  human 
beings  have  ever  had  to  strive  in  the  difficult  paths  of  life.  At 
first  she  had  felt  almost  calm.  When  she  had  spoken  to  An- 
drovsky there  had  even  been  a  strange  sensation  that  was  not 
unlike  triumph  in  her  heart.  In  this  triumph  she  had  felt  dis- 
embodied, as  if  she  were  a  spirit  standing  there,  removed  from 
earthly  suffering,  but  able  to  contemplate,  to  understand,  to  pity 
it,  removed  from  earthly  sin,  but  able  to  commit  an  action  that 
might  help  to  purge  it. 

When  she  said  to  Androvsky,  "  Now  you  can  pray,"  she  had 
passed  into  a  region  where  self  had  no  existence.  Her  whole 
soul  was  intent  upon  this  man  to  whom  she  had  given  all  the 
treasures  of  her  heart  and  whom  she  knew  to  be  writhing  as 
souls  writhe  in  Purgatory.  He  had  spoken  at  last,  he  had  laid 
bare  his  misery,  his  crime,  he  had  laid  bare  the  agony  of  one  who 
had  insulted  God,  but  who  repented  his  insult,  who  had  wan- 
dered far  away  from  God,  but  who  could  never  be  happy  in  his 
wandering,  who  could  never  be  at  peace  even  in  a  mighty  human 
love  unless  that  love  was  consecrated  by  God's  contentment  with 
it.  As  she  stood  there  Domini  had  had  an  instant  of  absolutely 
clear  sight  into  the  depths  of  another's  heart,  another's  nature. 
She  had  seen  the  monk  in  Androvsky,  not  slain  by  his 
act  of  rejection,  but  alive,  sorrow-stricken,  quivering,  scourged. 
And  she  had  been  able  to  tell  this  monk — as  God  seemed  to  be 
telling  her,  making  of  her  his  messenger — that  now  at  last  he 
might  pray  to  a  God  who  again  would  hear  him,  as  he  had  heard 
him  in  the  garden  of  El-Largani,  in  his  cell,  in  the  chapel,  in  the 
fields.  She  had  been  able  to  do  this.  Then  she  had  turned 
away,  gone  into  the  tent  and  fallen  upon  her  knees. 

But  with  that  personal  action  her  sense  of  triumph  passed 
away.  As  her  body  sank  down  her  soul  seemed  to  sink  down 
with  it  into  bottomless  depths  of  blackness  where  no  light  had 
ever  been,  into  an  underworld,  airless,  peopled  with  invisible 
violence.  And  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  it  was  her  previous  flight 
upward  which  had  caused  this  descent  into  a  place  which  had 
surely  never  before  been  visited  by  a  human  soul.  All  the 
selflessness  suddenly  vanished  from  her,  and  was  replaced  by  a 


THE   JOURNEY   BACK  437 

burning  sense  of  her  own  personality,  of  what  was  due  to  it,  of 
what  had  been  done  to  it,  of  what  it  now  was.  She  saw  it  like  a 
cloth  that  had  been  white  and  that  now  was  stained  with  in- 
delible filth.  And  anger  came  upon  her,  a  bitter  fury,  in  which 
she  was  inclined  to  cry  out,  not  only  against  man,  but  against 
God.  The  strength  of  her  nature  was  driven  into  a  wild  bitter- 
ness, the  sweet  waters  became  acrid  with  salt.  She  had  been 
able  a  moment  before  to  say  to  Androvsky,  almost  with  tender- 
ness, "  Now  at  last  you  can  pray."  Now  she  was  on  her  knees 
hating  him,  hating — yes,  surely  hating — God.  It  was  a  fright- 
ful sensation. 

Soul  and  body  felt  defiled.  She  saw  Androvsky  coming  into 
her  clean  life,  seizing  her  like  a  prey,  rolling  her  in  filth  that 
could  never  be  cleansed.  And  who  had  allowed  him  to  do  her 
this  deadly  wrong?  God.  And  she  was  on  her  knees  to  this 
God  who  had  permitted  this!  She  was  in  the  attitude  of  wor- 
ship. Her  whole  being  rebelled  against  prayer.  It  seemed  to 
her  as  if  she  made  a  furious  physical  effort  to  rise  from  her  knees, 
but  as  if  her  body  was  paralysed  and  could  not  obey  her  will. 
She  remained  kneeling,  therefore,  like  a  woman  tied  down,  like 
a  blasphemer  bound  by  cords  in  the  attitude  of  prayer,  whose 
soul  was  shrieking  insults  against  heaven. 

Presently  she  remembered  that  outside  Androvsky  was  pray- 
ing, that  she  had  meant  to  join  with  him  in  prayer.  She  had 
contemplated,  then,  a  further,  deeper  union  with  him.  Was  she 
a  madwoman?  Was  she  a  slave?  Was  she  as  one  of  those 
women  of  history  who,  seized  in  a  rape,  resigned  themselves  to 
love  and  obey  their  captors?  She  began  to  hate  herself.  And 
still  she  knelt.  Anyone  coming  in  at  the  tent  door  would  have 
seen  a  woman  apparently  entranced  in  an  ecstasy  of  worship. 

This  great  love  of  hers,  to  what  had  it  brought  her?  This 
awakening  of  her  soul,  what  was  its  meaning?  God  had  sent  a 
man  to  rouse  her  from  sleep  that  she  might  look  down  into  hell. 
Again  and  again,  with  ceaseless  reiteration,  she  recalled  the  in- 
cidents of  her  passion  in  the  desert.  She  thought  of  the  night  at 
Arba  when  Androvsky  blew  out  the  lamp.  That  night  had  been 
to  her  a  night  of  consecration.  Nothing  in  her  soul  had  risen  up 
to  warn  her.  No  instinct,  no  woman's  instinct,  had  stayed  her 
from  unwitting  sin.  The  sand-diviner  had  been  wiser  than  she ; 
Count  Anteoni  more  far-seeing;  the  priest  of  Beni-Mora  more 
guided  by  holiness,  by  the  inner  flame  that  flickers  before  the 
wind  that  blows  out  of  the  caverns  of  evil.  God  had  blinded 
her  in  order  that  she  might  fall,  had  brought  Androvsky  to  her 


438  THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 

in  order  that  her  religion,  her  Catholic  faith,  might  be  made 
hideous  to  her  for  ever.  She  trembled  all  over  as  she  knelt. 
Her  life  had  been  sad,  even  tormented.  And  she  had  set  out 
upon  a  pilgrimage  to  find  peace.  She  had  been  led  to  Beni- 
Mora.  She  remembered  her  arrival  in  Africa,  its  spell  descend- 
ing upon  her,  her  sensation  of  being  far  off,  of  having  left  her 
former  life  with  its  sorrows  for  ever.  She  remembered  the 
entrancing  quiet  of  Count  Anteoni's  garden,  how  as  she  entered 
it  she  seemed  to  be  entering  an  earthly  Paradise,  a  place  prepared 
by  God  for  one  who  was  weary  as  she  was  weary,  for  one  who 
longed  to  be  renewed  as  she  longed  to  be  renewed.  And  in  that 
Paradise,  in  the  inmost  recess  of  it,  she  had  put  her  hands  against 
Androvsky's  temples  and  given  her  life,  her  fate,  her  heart  into 
his  keeping.  That  was  why  the  garden  was  there,  that  she 
might  be  led  to  commit  this  frightful  action  in  it.  Her  soul 
felt  physically  sick.  As  to  her  body — but  just  then  she  scarcely 
thought  of  the  body.  For  she  was  thinking  of  her  soul  as  of  a 
body,  as  if  it  were  the  core  of  the  body  blackened,  sullied,  de- 
stroyed for  ever.  She  was  hot  with  shame,  she  was  hot  with 
a  fiery  indignation.  Always,  since  she  was  a  child,  if  she  were 
suddenly  touched  by  anyone  whom  she  did  not  love,  she  had  had 
an  inclination  to  strike  a  blow  on  the  one  who  touched  her. 
Now  it  was  as  if  an  unclean  hand  had  been  laid  on  her  soul. 
And  the  soul  quivered  with  longing  to  strike  back. 

Again  she  thought  of  Beni-Mora,  of  all  that  had  taken  place 
there.  She  realised  that  during  her  stay  there  a  crescendo 
of  calm  had  taken  place  within  her,  calm  of  the  spirit,  a 
crescendo  of  strength,  spiritual  strength,  a  crescendo  of  faith 
and  of  hope.  The  religion  which  had  almost  seemed  to  be 
slipping  from  her  she  had  grasped  firmly  again.  Her  soul  had 
arrived  in  Beni-Mora  an  invalid  and  had  become  a  convalescent. 

It  had  been  reclining  wearily,  fretfully.  In  Beni-Mora  it 
had  stood  up,  walked,  sung  as  the  morning  stars  sang  together. 
But  then — why?  If  this  was  to  be  the  end — why — why? 

And  at  this  question  she  paused,  as  before  a  great  portal  that 
was  shut.  She  went  back.  She  thought  again  of  this  beautiful 
crescendo,  of  this  gradual  approach  to  the  God  from  whom  she 
had  been  if  not  entirely  separated  at  any  rate  set  a  little  apart. 
Could  it  have  been  only  in  order  that  her  catastrophe  might  be 
the  more  complete,  her  downfall  the  more  absolute? 

And  then,  she  knew  not  why,  she  seemed  to  see  in  the  hands 
that  were  pressed  against  her  face  words  written  in  fire,  and  to 
read  them  slowly  as  a  child  spelling  out  a  great  lesson,  with  an 


THE   JOURNEY   BACK  439 

intense  attention,  with  a  labour  whose  result  would  be  eternal 
recollection : 

"  Love  watcheth,  and  sleeping,  slumbereth  not.  When  weary 
it  is  not  tired;  when  straitened  it  is  not  constrained;  when 
frightened  it  is  not  disturbed;  but  like  a  vivid  flame  and  a 
burning  torch  it  mounteth  upwards  and  securely  passeth  through 
all.  Whosover  loveth  knoweth  the  cry  of  this  voice." 

The  cry  of  this  voice !  At  that  moment,  in  the  vast  silence  of 
the  desert,  she  seemed  to  hear  it.  And  it  was  the  cry  of  her  own 
voice.  It  was  the  cry  of  the  voice  of  her  own  soul.  Startled, 
she  lifted  her  face  from  her  hands  and  listened.  She  did  not 
look  out  at  the  tent  door,  but  she  saw  the  moonlight  falling  upon 
the  matting  that  was  spread  upon  the  sand  within  the  tent, 
and  she  repeated,  "  Love  watcheth — Love  watcheth — Love 
watcheth,"  moving  her  lips  like  the  child  who  reads  with  diffi- 
culty. Then  dame  the  thought,  "  I  am  watching." 

The  passion  of  personal  anger  had  died  away  as  suddenly  as 
it  had  come.  She  felt  numb  and  yet  excited.  She  leaned 
forward  and  once  more  laid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  Love  watcheth — I  am  watching."  Then  a  moment — then 
— "  God  is  watching  me." 

She  whispered  the  words  over  again  and  again.  And  the 
numbness  began  to  pass  away.  And  the  anger  was  dead. 
Always  she  had  felt  as  if  she  had  been  led  to  Africa  for  some 
definite  end.  Did  not  the  freed  negroes,  far  out  in  the  Desert, 
sing  their  song  of  the  deeper  mysteries — "  No  one  but  God  and 
I  knows  what  is  in  my  heart  "  ?  And  had  not  she  heard  it  again 
and  again,  and  each  time  with  a  sense  of  awe?  She  had  always 
thought  that  the  words  were  wonderful  and  beautiful.  But  she 
had  thought  that  perhaps  they  were  not  true.  She  had  said  to 
Androvsky  that  he  knew  what  was  in  her  heart.  And  now,  in 
this  night,  in  its  intense  stillness,  close  to  the  man  who  for  so 
long  had  not  dared  to  pray  but  who  now  was  praying,  again  she 
thought  that  they  were  not  quite  true.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
did  not  know  what  was  in  her  heart,  and  that  she  was  waiting 
there  for  God  to  come  and  tell  her.  Would  He  come?  She 
waited.  Patience  entered  into  her. 

The  silence  was  long.  Night  was  travelling,  turning  her 
thoughts  to  a  distant  world.  The  moon  waned,  and  a  faint 
breath  of  wind  that  was  almost  cold  stole  over  the  sands,  among 
the  graves  in  the  cemetery,  to  the  man  and  the  woman  who  were 
keeping  vigil  upon  their  knees.  The  wind  died  away  almost 
ere  it  had  risen,  and  the  rigid  silence  that  precedes  the  dawn  held 


440  THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 

the  desert  in  its  grasp.  And  God  came  to  Domini  in  the  silence, 
Allah  through  Allah's  garden  that  was  shrouded  still  in  the 
shadows  of  night.  Once,  as  she  journeyed  through  the  roaring 
of  the  storm,  she  had  listened  for  the  voice  of  the  desert.  And 
as  the  desert  took  her  its  voice  had  spoken  to  her  in  a  sudden 
and  magical  silence,  in  a  falling  of  the  wind.  Now,  in  a  more 
magical  silence,  the  voice  of  God  spoke  to  her.  And  the  voice 
of  the  desert  and  of  God  were  as  one.  As  she  knelt  she  heard 
God  telling  her  what  was  in  her  heart.  It  was  a  strange  and 
passionate  revelation.  She  trembled  as  she  heard.  And  some- 
times she  was  inclined  to  say,  "It  is  not  so."  And  sometimes 
she  was  afraid,  afraid  of  what  this — all  this  that  was  in  her  heart 
— would  lead  her  to  do.  For  God  told  her  of  a  strength  which 
she  had  not  known  her  heart  possessed,  which — so  it  seemed  to 
her — she  did  not  wish  it  to  possess,  of  a  strength  from  which 
something  within  her  shrank,  against  which  something  within 
her  protested.  But  God  would  not  be  denied.  He  told  her  she 
had  this  strength.  He  told  her  that  she  must  use  it.  He  told 
her  that  she  would  use  it.  And  she  began  to  understand  some- 
thing of  the  mystery  of  the  purposes  of  God  in  relation  to  her- 
self, and  to  understand,  with  it,  how  closely  companioned  even 
those  who  strive  after  effacement  of  self  are  by  selfishness — how 
closely  companioned  she  had  been  on  her  African  pilgrimage. 
Everything  that  had  happened  in  Africa  she  had  quietly  taken  to 
herself,  as  a  gift  made  to  her  for  herself. 

The  peace  that  had  descended  upon  her  was  balm  for  her 
soul,  and  was  sent  merely  for  that,  to  stop  the  pain  she  suffered 
from  old  wounds  that  she  might  be  comfortably  at  rest.  The 
crescendo — the  beautiful  crescendo — of  calm,  of  strength,  of 
faith,  of  hope  which  she  had,  as  it  were,  heard  like  a  noble  music 
within  her  spirit  had  been  the  David  sent  to  play  upon  the  harp 
to  her  Saul,  that  from  her  Saul  the  black  demon  of  unrest,  of 
despair,  might  depart.  That  was  what  she  had  believed.  She 
had  believed  that  she  had  come  to  Africa  for  herself,  and  now 
God,  in  the  silence,  was  telling  her  that  this  was  not  so,  that  He 
had  brought  her  to. Africa  to  sacrifice  herself  in  the  redemption 
of  another.  And  as  she  listened — listened,  with  bowed  head, 
and  eyes  in  which  tears  were  gathering,  from  which  tears  were 
falling  upon  her  clasped  hands — she  knew  that  it  was  true,  she 
knew  that  God  meant  her  to  put  away  her  selfishness,  to  rise 
above  it.  Those  eagle's  wings  of  which  she  had  thought — she 
must  spread  them.  She  must  soar  towards  the  place  of  the 
angels,  whither  good  women  soar  in  the  great  moments  of  their 


THE  JOURNEY   BACK  441 

love,  borne  up  by  the  winds  of  God.  On  the  minaret  of  the 
mosque  of  Sidi-Zerzour,  while  Androvsky  remained  in  the  dark 
shadow  with  a  curse,  she  had  mounted,  with  prayer,  surely  a 
little  way  towards  God.  And  now  God  said  to  her,  "  Mount 
higher,  come  nearer  to  me,  bring  another  with  you.  That  was 
my  purpose  in  leading  you  to  Beni-Mora,  in  leading  you  far  out 
into  the  desert,  in  leading  you  into  the  heart  of  the  desert." 

She  had  been  led  to  Africa  for  a  definite  end,  and  now  she 
knew  what  that  end  was.  On  the  mosque  of  the  minaret  of 
Sidi-Zerzour  she  had  surely  seen  prayer  travelling,  the  soul  of 
prayer  travelling.  And  she  had  asked  herself — "  Whither?  " 
She  had  asked  herself  where  was  the  halting-place,  with  at  last 
the  pitched  tent,  the  camp  fires,  and  the  long,  the  long  repose? 
And  when  she  came  down  into  the  court  of  the  mosque  and 
found  Androvsky  watching  the  old  Arab  who  struck  against 
the  mosque  and  cursed,  she  had  wished  that  Androvsky  had 
mounted  with  her  a  little  way  towards  God. 

He  should  mount  with  her.  Always  she  had  longed  to  see 
him  above  her.  Could  she  leave  him  below?  She  knew  she 
could  not.  She  understood  that  God  did  not  mean  her  to.  She 
understood  perfectly.  And  tears  streamed  from  her  eyes.  For 
now  there  came  upon  her  a  full  comprehension  of  her  love  for 
Androvsky.  His  revelation  had  not  killed  it,  as,  for  a  moment, 
in  her  passionate  personal  anger,  she  had  been  inclined  to  think. 
Indeed  it  seemed  to  her  now  that,  till  this  hour  of  silence,  she 
had  never  really  loved  him,  never  known  how  to  love.  Even  in 
the  tent  at  Arba  she  had  not  fully  loved  him,  perfectly  loved  him. 
For  the  thought  of  self,  the  desires  of  self,  the  passion  of  self, 
had  entered  into  and  been  mingled  with  her  love.  But  now  she 
loved  him  perfectly,  because  she  loved  as  God  intended  her  to 
love.  She  loved  him  as  God's  envoy  sent  to  him. 

She  was  still  weeping,  but  she  began  to  feel  calm,  as  if  the 
stillness  of  this  hour  before  the  dawn  entered  into  her  soul.  She 
thought  of  herself  now  only  as  a  vessel  into  which  God  was 
pouring  his  purpose  and  his  love. 

Just  as  dawn  was  breaking,  as  the  first  streak  of  light  stole 
into  the  east  and  threw  a  frail  spear  of  gold  upon  the  sands,  she 
was  conscious  again  of  a  thrill  of  life  within  her,  of  the  move- 
ment of  her  unborn  child.  Then  she  lifted  her  head  from  her 
hand,  looking  towards  the  east,  and  whispered: 

"  Give  me  strength  for  one  more  thing — give  me  strength  to 
be  silent!" 

She  waited  as  if  for  an  answer.     Then  she  rose  from  her 


442  THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 

knees,  bathed  her  face  and  went  out  to  the  tent  door  to 
Androvsky. 

"Boris!"  she  said. 

He  rose  from  his  knees  and  looked  at  her,  holding  the  little 
wooden  crucifix  in  his  hand. 

"  Domini  ?  "  he  said  in  an  uncertain  voice. 

"  Put  it  back  into  your  breast.     Keep  it  for  ever,  Boris." 

As  if  mechanically,  and  not  removing  his  eyes  from  her,  he 
put  the  crucifix  into  his  breast.  After  a  moment  she  spoke 
again,  quietly. 

"  Boris,  you  never  wished  to  stay  here.  You  meant  to  stay 
here  for  me.  Let  us  go  away  from  Amara.  Let  us  go  to-day, 
now,  in  the  dawn." 

"Us!"  he  said. 

There  was  a  profound  amazement  in  his  voice. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

"Away  from  Amara — you  and  I — together?" 

"  Yes,  Boris,  together." ' 

"  Where — where  can  we  go?  " 

The  amazement  seemed  to  deepen  in  his  voice.  His  eyes 
were  watching  her  with  an  almost  fierce  intentness.  In  a  flash 
of  insight  she  realised  that,  just  then,  he  was  wondering  about 
her  as  he  had  never  wondered  before,  wondering  whether  she 
was  really  the  good  woman  at  whose  feet  his  sin-stricken  soul 
had  worshipped.  Yes,  he  was  asking  himself  that  question. 

"Boris,"  she  said,  "will  you  leave  yourself  in  my  hands? 
We  have  talked  of  our  future  life.  We  have  wondered  what  we 
should  do.  Will  you  let  me  do  as  I  will,  let  the  future  be  as  I 
choose?  " 

In  her  heart  she  said  "  as  God  chooses." 

"  Yes,  Domini,"  he  answered.  "  I  am  in  your  hands,  utterly 
in  your  hands." 

"  No,"  she  said. 

Neither  of  them  spoke  after  that  till  the  sunlight  lay  above 
the  towers  and  minarets  of  Amara.  Then  Domini  said : 

"  We  will  go  to-day — now." 

And  that  morning  the  camp  was  struck,  and  the  new  journey 
began — the  journey  back. 

CHAPTER  XXVIII 

A  SILENCE  had  fallen  between  Domini  and  Androvsky  which 
neither  seemed  able  to  break.  They  rode  on  side  by  side  across 


THE   JOURNEY   BACK  443 

the  sands  towards  the  north  through  the  long  day.  The  towers 
of  Amara  faded  in  the  sunshine  above  the  white  crests  of  the 
dunes.  The  Arab  villages  upon  their  little  hills  disappeared  in 
the  quivering  gold.  New  vistas  of  desert  opened  before  them, 
oases  crowded  with  palms,  salt  lakes  and  stony  ground.  They 
passed  by  native  towns.  They  saw  the  negro  gardeners  laughing 
among  the  rills  of  yellow  water,  or  climbing  with  bare  feet  the 
wrinkled  tree  trunks  to  lop  away  dead  branches.  They  heard 
tiny  goatherds  piping,  solitary,  in  the  wastes.  Dreams  of  the 
mirage  rose  and  faded  far  off  on  the  horizon,  rose  and  faded 
mystically,  leaving  no  trembling  trace  behind.  And  they  were 
silent  as  the  mirage,  she  in  her  purpose,  he  in  his  wonder.  And 
the  long  day  waned,  and  towards  evening  the  camp  was  pitched 
and  the  evening  meal  was  prepared.  And  still  they  could  not 
speak. 

Sometimes  Androvsky  watched  her,  and  there  was  a  great 
calm  in  her  face,  but  there  was  no  rebuke,  no  smallness  of  anger, 
no  hint  of  despair.  Always  he  had  felt  her  strength  of  mind  and 
body,  but  never  so  much  as  now.  Could  he  rest  on  it  ?  Dared 
he?  He  did  not  know.  And  the  day  seemed  to  him  to  become 
a  dream,  and  the  silence  recalled  to  him  the  silence  of  the 
monastery  in  which  he  had  worshipped  God  before  the  stranger 
came.  He  thought  that  in  this  silence  he  ought  to  feel  that  she 
was  deliberately  raising  barriers  between  them,  but — it  was 
strange — he  could  not  feel  this.  In  her  silence  there  was  no 
bitterness.  When  is  there  bitterness  in  strength?  He  rode  on 
and  on  beside  her,  and  his  sense  of  a  dream  deepened,  helped  by 
the  influence  of  the  desert.  Where  were  they  going?  He  did 
not  know.  What  was  her  purpose  ?  He  could  not  tell.  But  he 
felt  that  she  had  a  purpose,  that  her  mind  was  resolved.  Now 
and  then,  tearing  himself  with  an  effort  from  the  dream,  he 
asked  himself  what  it  could  be.  What  could  be  in  store  for  him, 
for  them,  after  the  thing  he  had  told?  What  could  be  their 
mutual  life  ?  Must  it  not  be  for  ever  at  an  end  ?  Was  it  not 
shattered  ?  Was  it  not  dust,  like  the  dust  of  the  desert  that  rose 
round  their  horses'  feet?  The  silence  did  not  tell  him,  and 
again  he  ceased  from  wondering  and  the  dream  closed  round 
him.  Were  they  not  travelling  in  a  mirage,  mirage  people, 
unreal,  phantom-like,  who  would  presently  fade  away  into  the 
spaces  of  the  sun?  The  sand  muffled  the  tread  of  the  horses' 
feet.  The  desert  understood  their  silence,  clothed  it  in  a  silence 
more  vast  and  more  impenetrable.  And  Androvsky  had  made 
his  effort.  He  had  spoken  the  truth  at  last.  He  could  do  nq 


444  THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 

more.  He  was  incapable  of  any  further  action.  As  Domini 
felt  herself  to  be  in  the  hands  of  God,  he  felt  himself  to  be  in 
the  hands  of  this  woman  who  had  received  his  confession  with 
this  wonderful  calm,  who  was  leading  him  he  knew  not  whither 
in.  this  wonderful  silence. 

When  the  camp  was  pitched,  however,  he  noticed  something 
that  caught  him  sharply  away  from  the  dreamlike,  unreal  feel- 
ing, and  set  him  face  to  face  with  fact  that  was  cold  as  steel. 
Always  till  now  the  dressing-tent  had  been  pitched  beside  their 
sleeping-tent,  with  the  flap  of  the  entrance  removed  so  that  the 
two  tents  communicated.  To-night  it  stood  apart,  near  the 
sleeping-tent,  and  in  it  was  placed  one  of  the  small  camp  beds. 
Androvsky  was  alone  when  he  saw  this.  On  reaching  the  halt- 
ing-place he  had  walked  a  little  way  into  the  desert.  When 
he  returned  he  found  this  change.  It  told  him  something  of 
what  was  passing  in  Domini's  mind,  and  it  marked  the  trans- 
formation of  their  mutual  life.  As  he  gazed  at  the  two  tents  he 
felt  stricken,  yet  he  felt  a  curious  sense  of  something  that  was 
like — was  it  not  like — relief?  It  was  as  if  his  body  had  re- 
ceived a  frightful  blow  and  on  his  soul  a  saint's  hand  had  been 
gently  laid,  as  if  something  fell  about  him  in  ruins,  and  at  the 
same  time  a  building  which  he  loved,  and  which  for  a  moment 
he  had  thought  tottering,  stood  firm  before  him  founded  upon 
rock.  He  was  a  man  capable  of  a  passionate  belief,  despite  his 
sin,  and  he  had  always  had  a  passionate  belief  in  Domini's 
religion.  That  morning,  when  she  came  out  to  him  in  the  sand, 
a  momentary  doubt  had  assailed  him.  He  had  known  the 
thought,  "  Does  she  love  me  still — does  she  love  me  more  than 
she  loves  God,  more  than  she  loves  his  dictates  manifested  in 
the  Catholic  religion  ?  "  When  she  said  that  word  "  together  " 
that  had  been  his  thought.  Now,  as  he  looked  at  the  two  tents, 
a  white  light  seemed  to  fall  upon  Domini's  character,  and  in  this 
white  light  stood  the  ruin  and  the  house  that  was  founded  upon 
a  rock.  He  was  torn  by  conflicting  sensations  of  despair  and 
triumph.  She  was  what  he  had  believed.  That  made  the 
triumph.  But  since  she  was  that  where  was  his  future  with 
her  ?  The  monk  and  the  man  who  had  fled  from  the  monastery 
stood  up  within  him  to  do  battle.  The  monk  knew  triumph, 
but  the  man  was  in  torment. 

Presently,  as  Androvsky  looked  at  the  two  tents,  the  monk 

in  him  seemed  to  die  a  new  death,  the  man  who  had  left  the 

monastery  to  know  a  new  resurrection.     He  was  seized  by  a 

1  furious  desire  to  go  backward  in  time,  to  go  backward  but  a  few 


~*     THE   JOURNEY   BACK  445 

hours,  to  the  moment  when  Domini  did  not  know  what  now  she 
knew.  He  cursed  himself  for  what  he  had  done.  At  last  he 
had  been  able  to  pray.  Yes,  but  what  was  prayer  now,  what 
was  prayer  to  the  man  who  looked  at  the  two  tents  and  under- 
stood what  they  meant?  He  moved  away  and  began  to  walk  up 
and  down  near  to  the  two  tents.  He  did  not  know  where 
Domini  was.  At  a  little  distance  he  saw  the  servants  busy 
preparing  the  evening  meal.  Smoke  rose  up  before  the  cook's 
tent,  curling  away  stealthily  among  a  group  of  palm  trees, 
beneath  which  some  Arab  boys  were  huddled,  staring  with  wide 
eyes  at  the  unusual  sight  of  travellers.  They  came  from  a  tiny 
village  at  a  short  distance  off,  half  hidden  among  palm  gardens. 
The  camels  were  feeding.  A  mule  was  rolling  voluptuously 
in  the  sand.  At  a  well  a  shepherd  was  watering  his  flocks, 
which  crowded  about  him  baaing  expectantly.  The  air  seemed 
to  breathe  out  a  subtle  aroma  of  peace  and  of  liberty.  And  this 
apparent  presence  of  peace,  this  vision  of  the  calm  of  others, 
human  beings  and  animals,  added  to  the  torture  of  Androvsky. 
As  he  walked  to  and  fro  he  felt  as  if  he  were  being  devoured 
by  his  passions,  as  if  he  were  losing  the  last  vestiges  of  self- 
control.  Never  in  the  monastery,  never  even  in  the  night  when 
he  left  it,  had  he  been  tormented  like  this.  For  now  he  had  a 
terrible  companion  whom,  at  that  time,  he  had  not  known. 
Memory  walked  with  him  before  the  tents,  the  memory  of 
his  body,  recalling  and  calling  for  the  past. 

He  had  destroyed  that  past  himself.  But  for  him  it  might 
have  been  also  the  present,  the  future.  It  might  have  lasted  for 
years,  perhaps  till  death  took  him  or  Domini.  Why  not?  He 
had  only  had  to  keep  silence,  to  insist  on  remaining  in  the  desert, 
far  from  the  busy  ways  of  men.  They  could  have  lived  as  cer- 
tain others  lived,  who  loved  the  free,  the  solitary  life,  in  an  oasis 
of  their  own,  tending  their  gardens  of  palms.  Life  would  have 
gone  like  a  sunlit  dream.  And  death?  At  that  thought  he 
shuddered.  Death — what  would  that  have  been  to  him? 
What  would  it  be  now  when  it  came?  He  put  the  thought 
from  him  with  force,  as  a  man  thrusts  away  from  him  the  filthy 
hand  of  a  clamouring  stranger  assailing  him  in  the  street. 

This  evening  he  had  no  time  to  think  of  death.  Life  was 
enough,  life  with  this  terror  which  he  had  deliberately  placed 
in  it. 

He  thought  of  himself  as  a  madman  for  having  spoken  to 
Domini.  He  cursed  himself  as  a  madman.  For  he  knew, 
although  he  strove  furiously  not  to  know,  how  irrevocable  was 


446  THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 

bis  act,  in  consequence  of  the  great  strength  of  her  nature.  He 
knew  that  though  she  had  been  to  him  a  woman  of  fire  she  might 
be  to  him  a  woman  of  iron — even  to  him  whom  she  loved. 

How  she  had  loved  him! 

He  walked  faster  before  the  tents,  to  and  fro. 

How  she  had  loved  him!  How  she  loved  him  still,  at  this 
moment  after  she  knew  what  he  was,  what  he  had  done  to  her. 
He  had  no  doubt  of  her  love  as  he  walked  there.  He  felt  it, 
like  a  tender  hand  upon  him.  But  that  hand  was  inflexible  too. 
In  its  softness  there  was  firmness — firmness  that  would  never 
yield  to  any  strength  in  him. 

Those  two  tents  told  him  the  story  of  her  strength.  As  he 
looked  at  them  he  was  looking  into  her  soul.  And  her  soul  was 
in  direct  conflict  with  his.  That  was  what  he  felt.  She  had 
thought,  she  had  made  up  her  mind.  Quietly,  silently  she  had 
acted.  By  that  action,  without  a  word,  she  had  spoken  to  him, 
told  him  a  tremendous  thing.  And  the  man — the  passionate 
man  who  had  left  the  monastery — loose  in  him  now  was  aflame 
with  an  impotent  desire  that  was  like  a  heat  of  fury  against  her, 
while  the  monk,  hidden  far  down  in  him,  was  secretly  worship- 
ping her  cleanliness  of  spirit. 

But  the  man  who  had  left  the  monastery  was  in  the  ascendant 
in  him,  and  at  last  drove  him  to  a  determination  that  the  monk 
secretly  knew  to  be  utterly  vain.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  enter 
into  conflict  with  Domim's  strength.  He  felt  that  he  must,  that 
he  could  not  quietly,  without  a  word,  accept  this  sudden  new  life 
of  separation  symbolised  for  him  by  the  two  tents  standing 
apart. 

He  stood  still.  In  the  distance,  under  the  palms,  he  saw 
Batouch  laughing  with  Ouardi.  Near  them  Ali  was  reposing 
on  a  mat,  moving  his  head  from  side  to  side,  smiling  with  half- 
shut,  vacant  eyes,  and  singing  a  languid  song. 

This  music  maddened  him. 

"Batouch!"  he  called  out  sharply.     "Batouch!" 

Batouch  stopped  laughing,  glanced  round,  then  came  towards 
him  with  a  large  pace,  swinging  from  his  hips. 

"Monsieur?" 

"  Batouch !  "  Androvsky  said. 

But  he  could  not  go  on.  He  could  not  say  anything  about 
the  two  tents  to  a  servant. 

"Where — where  is  Madame?"  he  said  almost  stammering. 

"  Out  there,  Monsieur." 

With  a  sweeping  arm  the  poet  pointed  towards  a  hump  of 


THE  JOURNEY  BACK  447 

sand  crowned  by  a  few  palms.  Domini  was  sitting  there,  sur- 
rounded by  Arab  children,  to  whom  she  was  giving  sweets  out  of 
a  box.  As  Androvsky  saw  her  the  anger  in  him  burnt  up  more 
fiercely.  This  action  of  Domini's,  simple,  natural  though  it 
was,  seemed  to  him  in  his  present  condition  cruelly  heartless. 
He  thought  of  her  giving  the  or^r  about  the  tents  and  then 
going  calmly  to  play  with  these  children,  while  he — while 

"  You  can  go,  Batouch,"  he  said.     "  Go  away." 

The  poet  stared  at  him  with  a  superb  surprise,  then  moved 
slowly  towards  Ouardi,  holding  his  burnous  with  his  large 
hands. 

Androvsky  looked  again  at  the  two  tents  as  a  man  looks  at 
two  enemies.  Then,  walking  quickly,  he  went  towards  the 
hump  of  sand.  As  he  approached  it  Domini  had  her  side  face 
turned  towards  him.  She  did  not  see  him.  The  little  Arabs 
were  dancing  round  her  on  their  naked  feet,  laughing,  show- 
ing their  white  teeth  and  opening  their  mouths  wide  for  the 
sugar-plums — gaiety  incarnate.  Androvsky  gazed  at  the  woman 
who  was  causing  this  childish  joy,  and  he  saw  a  profound  sad- 
ness. Never  had  he  seen  Domini's  face  look  like  this.  It  was 
always  white,  but  now  its  whiteness  was  like  a  whiteness  of 
marble.  She  moved  her  head,  turning  to  feed  one  of  the  little 
gaping  mouths,  and  he  saw  her  eyes,  tearless,  but  sadder  than  if 
they  had  been  full  of  tears.  She  was  looking  at  these  children 
as  a  mother  looks  at  her  children  who  are  fatherless.  He  did 
not — how  could  he? — understand  the  look,  but  it  went  to  his 
heart.  He  stopped,  watching.  One  of  the  children  saw  him, 
shrieked,  pointed.  Domini  glanced  round.  As  she  saw  him 
she  smiled,  threw  the  last  sugar-plums  and  came  towards  him. 
"  Do  you  want  me?  "  she  said,  coming  up  to  him. 

His  lips  trembled. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  want  you." 

Something  in  his  voice  seemed  to  startle  her,  but  she  said 
nothing  more,  only  stood  looking  at  him.  The  children,  who 
had  followed  her,  crowded  round  them,  touching  their  clothes 
curiously. 

"  Send  them  away,"  he  said. 

She  made  the  children  go,  pushing  them  gently,  pointing  to 
the  village,  and  showing  the  empty  box  to  them.  Reluctantly 
at  last  they  went  towards  the  village,  turning  their  heads  to 
stare  at  her  till  they  were  a  long  way  off,  then  holding  up  their 
skirts  and  racing  for  the  houses. 


448  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

"  Domini — Domini,"  he  said.  "  You  can — you  can  play  with 
children — to-day." 

"  I  wanted  to  feel  I  could  give  a  little  happiness  to-day,"  she 
answered — "  even  to-day." 

"  To-day  when — when  to  me — to  me — you  are  giving " 

But  before  her  steady  gaze  all  the  words  he  had  meant  to 
say,  all  the  words  of  furious  protest,  died  on  his  lips. 

"  To  me — to  me "  he  repeated. 

Then  he  was  silent. 

"  Boris,"  she  said,  "  I  want  to  give  you  one  thing,  the  thing 
that  you  have  lost.  I  want  to  give  you  back  peace." 

"  You  never  can." 

"  I  must  try.  Even  if  I  cannot  I  shall  know  that  I  have 
tried." 

"  You  are  giving  me — you  are  giving  me  not  peace,  but  a 
sword,"  he  said. 

She  understood  that  he  had  seen  the  two  tents. 

"  Sometimes  a  sword  can  give  peace." 

"  The  peace  of  death." 

"  Boris — my  dear  one — there  are  many  kinds  of  deaths. 
Try  to  trust  me.  Leave  me  to  act  as  I  must  act.  Let  me  try 
to  be  guided — only  let  me  try." 

He  did  not  say  another  word. 

That  night  they  slept  apart  for  the  first  time  since  their 
marriage. 

.  •  •  •  . 

"  Domini,  where  are  you  taking  me?  Where  are  we  going?  " 

The  camp  was  struck  once  more  and  they  were  riding 
through  the  desert.  Domini  hesitated  to  answer  his  question. 
It  had  been  put  with  a  sort  of  terror. 

"  I  know  nothing,"  he  continued.  "  I  am  in  your  hands 
like  a  child.  It  cannot  be  always  so.  I  must  know,  I  must 
understand.  What  is  our  life  to  be  ?  What  is  our  future  ?  A 
man  cannot " 

He  paused.     Then  he  said: 

"  I  feel  that  you  have  come  to  some  resolve.  I  feel  it  per- 
petually. It  is  as  if  you  were  in  light  and  I  in  darkness,  you 
in  knowledge  and  I  in  ignorance.  You — you  must  tell  me.  I 
have  told  you  all  now.  You  must  tell  me." 

But  .she  hesitated. 

"  Not  now,"  she  answered.     "  Not  yet." 

"  We  are  to  journey  on  day  by  day  like  this,  and  I  am  not  to 
know  where  we  are  going!  I  cannot,  Domini — I  will  not." 


THE   JOURNEY   BACK  449 

"  Boris,  I  shall  tell  you." 

"When?" 

"  Will  you  trust  me,  Boris,  completely?     Can  you?  " 

"How?" 

"  Boris,  I  have  prayed  so  much  for  you  that  at  last  I  feel  that 
I  can  act  for  you.  Don't  think  me  presumptuous.  If  you  could 
see  into  my  heart  you  would  see  that — indeed,  I  don't  think  it 
would  be  possible  to  feel  more  humble  than  I  do  in  regard  to 
you." 

"  Humble — you,  Domini !  You  can  feel  humble  when  you 
think  of  me,  when  you  are  with  me." 

"  Yes.  You  have  suffered  so  terribly.  God  has  led  you.  I 
feel  that  He  has  been — oh,  I  don't  know  how  to  say  it  quite 
naturally,  quite  as  I  feel  it — that  He  has  been  more  intent  on 
you  than  on  anyone  I  have  ever  known.  I  feel  that  his  meaning 
in  regarding  to  you  is  intense,  Boris,  as  if  he  would  not  let 
you  go." 

"  He  let  me  go  when  I  left  the  monastery." 

"  Does  one  never  return  ?  " 

Again  a  sensation  almost  of  terror  assailed  him.  He  felt  as 
if  he  were  fighting  in  darkness  something  that  he  could  not 
see. 

"  Return!  "  he  said.     "  What  do  you  mean?  " 

She  saw  the  expression  of  almost  angry  fear  in  his  face.  It 
warned  her  not  to  give  the  reins  to  her  natural  impulse,  which 
was  always  towards  a  great  frankness. 

"  Boris,  you  fled  from  God,  but  do  you  not  think  it  possible 
that  you  could  ever  return  to  Him?  Have  you  not  taken  the 
first  step?  Have  you  not  prayed ?" 

His  face  changed,  grew  slightly  calmer. 

"  You  told  me  I  could  pray,"  he  answered,  almost  like  a 
child.  "  Otherwise  I — I  should  not  have  dared  to.  I  should 
have  felt  that  I  was  insulting  God." 

"  If  you  trusted  me  in  such  a  thing,  can  you  not  trust  me 
now?"' 

"  But  " — he  said  uneasily — "  but  this  is  different,  a  worldly 
matter,  a  matter  of  daily  life.  I  shall  have  to  know." 

"  Yes." 

"Then  why  should  I  not  know  now?  At  any  moment  I 
could  ask  Batouch." 

"  Batouch  only  knows  from  day  to  day.  I  have  a  map  of  the 
desert.  I  got  it  before  we  left  Beni-Mora." 

Something — perhaps  a  very  slight  hesitation  in  her  voice  just 


450  THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 

before  she  said  the  last  words — startled  him.  He  turned  on  his 
horse  and  looked  at  her  hard. 

"  Domini,"  he  said,  "  are  we — we  are  not  going  back  to 
Beni-Mora?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  to-night,"  she  replied  in  a  low  voice.  "  Let 
me  tell  you  to-night." 

He  said  no  more,  but  he  gazed  at  her  for  a  long  time  as  if 
striving  passionately  to  read  her  thoughts.  But  he  could  not. 
Her  white  face  was  calm,  and  she  rode  looking  straight  before 
her,  as  one  that  looked  towards  some  distant  goal  to  which  all 
her  soul  was  journeying  with  her  body.  There  was  something 
mystical  in  her  face,  in  that  straight,  far-seeing  glance,  that 
surely  pierced  beyond  the  blue  horizon  line  and  reached  a  far- 
off  world.  What  world?  He  asked  himself  the  question,  but 
no  answer  came,  and  he  dropped  his  eyes.  A  new  and  horrible 
sadness  came  to  him,  a  new  sensation  of  separation  from  Domini. 
She  had.  set  their  bodies  apart,  and  he  had  yielded.  Now,  was 
she  not  setting  something  else  apart?  For,  in  spite  of  all,  in 
spite  of  his  treacherous  existence  with  her,  he  had  so  deeply  and 
entirely  loved  her  that  he  had  sometimes  felt,  dared  to  feel, 
that  in  their  passion  in  the  desert  their  souls  had  been  fused 
together.  His  was  black — he  knew  it — and  hers  was  white. 
But  had  not  the  fire  and  the  depth  of  their  love  conquered  all 
differences,  made  even  their  souls  one  as  their  bodies  had  been 
one?  And  now  was  she  not  silently,  subtly,  withdrawing  her 
soul  from  his?  A  sensation  of  acute  despair  swept  over  him, 
of  utter  impotence. 

"Domini!"  he  said,  "Domini!" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

And  this  time  she  withdrew  her  eyes  from  the  blue  distance 
and  looked  at  him. 

"  Domini,  you  must  trust  me." 

He  was  thinking  of  the  two  tents  set  the  one  apart  from  the 
other. 

"  Domini,  Fve  borne  something  in  silence.  I  haven't  spoken. 
I  wanted  to  speak.  I  tried — but  I  did  not.  I  bore  my  punish- 
ment— you  don't  know,  you'll  never  know  what  I  felt  last — last 
night — when — Fve  borne  that.  But  there's  one  thing  I  can't 
bear.  Fve  lived  a  lie  with  you.  My  love  for  you  overcame  me. 
I  fell.  I  have  told  you  that  I  fell.  Don't — don't  because  of 
that — don't  take  away  your  heart  from  me  entirely.  Domini— 
Domini — don't  do  that." 

She  heard  a  sound  of  despair  in  his  voice. 


THE   JOURNEY   BACK  451 

"  Oh,  Boris,"  she  said,  "  if  you  knew!  There  was  only  one 
moment  when  I  fancied  my  heart  was  leaving  you.  It  passed 
almost  before  it  came,  and  now " 

"  But,"  he  interrupted,  "  do  you  know — do  you  know  that 
since — since  I  spoke,  since  I  told  you,  you've — you've  never 
touched  me?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  it,"  she  replied  quietly. 

Something  told  him  to  be  silent  then.  Something  told  him 
to  wait  till  the  night  came  and  the  camp  was  pitched  once  more. 

They  rested  at  noon  for  several  hours,  as  it  was  impossible  to 
travel  in  the  heat  of  the  day.  The  camp  started  an  hour  before 
they  did.  Only  Batouch  remained  behind  to  show  them  the 
way  to  Ain-la-Hammam,  where  they  would  pass  the  following 
night.  When  Batouch  brought  the  horses  he  said: 

"  Does  Madame  know  the  meaning  of  Ain-la-Hammam?  " 

"  No,"  said  Domini.     "  What  is  it?  " 

"  Source  des  tourterelles,"  replied  Batouch.  "  I  was  there 
once  with  an  English  traveller." 

"  Source  des  tourterelles,"  repeated  Domini.  "  Is  it  beauti- 
ful, Batouch?  It  sounds  as  if  id  ought  to  be  beautiful." 

She  scarcely  knew  why,  but  she  had  a  longing  that  Ain-la- 
Hammam  might  be  tender,  calm,  a  place  to  soothe  the  spirit,  a 
place  in  which  Androvsky  might  be  influenced  to  listen  to  what 
she  had  to  tell  him  without  revolt,  without  despair.  Once  he 
had  spoken  about  the  influence  of  place,  about  rising  superior 
to  it.  But  she  believed  in  it,  and  she  waited,  almost  anxiously, 
for  the  reply  of  Batouch.  As  usual  it  was  enigmatic. 

"  Madame  will  see,"  he  answered.  "  Madame  will  see.  But 
the  Englishman " 

"Yes?" 

"  The  Englishman  was  ravished.  '  This,'  he  said  to  me, 
'  this,  Batouch,  is  a  little  Paradise ! '  And  there  was  no  moon 
then.  To-night  there  will  be  a  moon." 

"  Paradise!  "  exclaimed  Androvsky. 

He  sprang  upon  his  horse  and  pulled  up  the  reins.  Domini 
said  no  more.  They  had  started  late.  It  was  night  when  they 
reached  Ain-la-Hammam.  As  they  drew  near  Domini  looked 
before  her  eagerly  through  the  pale  gloom  that  hung  over  the 
sand.  She  saw  no  village,  only  a  very  small  grove  of  palms  and 
near  it  the  outline  of  a  bordj.  The  place  was  set  in  a  cup  of 
the  Sahara.  All  around  it  rose  low  hummocks  of  sand.  On 
two  or  three  of  them  were  isolated  clumps  of  palms.  Here  the 
eyes  roamed  over  no  vast  distances.  There  was  little  suggestion 


452  THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 

of  space.  She  drew  up  her  horse  on  one  of  the  hummocks  and 
gazed  down.  She  heard  doves  murmuring  in  their  soft  voices 
among  the  trees.  The  tents  were  pitched  near  the  bordj. 

"What  does  Madame  think?"  asked  Batouch.  "Does 
Madame  agree  with  the  Englishman  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  strange  little  place,"  she  answered. 

She  listened  to  the  voices  of  the  doves.  A  dog  barked  by 
the  bordj. 

"  It  is  almost  like  a  hiding-place,"  she  added. 

Androvsky  said  nothing,  but  he,  too,  was  gazing  intently  at 
the  trees  below  them,  he,  too,  was  listening  to  the  voices  of  the 
doves.  After  a  moment  he  looked  at  her. 

"  Domini,"  he  whispered.  "  Here — won't  you — won't  you 
let  me  touch  your  hand  again  here  ?  " 

"  Come,  Boris,"  she  answered.     "  It  is  late." 

They  rode  down  into  Ain-la-Hammam. 

The  tents  had  all  been  pitched  near  together  on  the  south  of 
the  bordj,  and  separated  by  it  from  the  tiny  oasis.  Opposite  to 
them  was  a  Cafe  Maure  of  the  humblest  kind,  a  hovel  of  baked 
earth  and  brushwood,  with  earthen  divans  and  a  coffee  niche. 
Before  this  was  squatting  a  group  of  five  dirty  desert  men, 
the  sole  inhabitants  of  Ain-la-Hammam.  Just  before  dinner 
Domini  gave  an  order  to  Batouch,  and,  while  they  were  dining, 
Androvsky  noticed  that  their  people  were  busy  unpegging  the 
two  sleeping-tents. 

"What  are  they  doing?"  he  said  to  Domini,  uneasily.  In 
his  present  condition  everything  roused  in  him  anxiety.  In 
every  unusual  action  he  discerned  the  beginning  of  some  tragedy 
which  might  affect  his  life. 

"  I  told  Batouch  to  put  our  tents  on  the  other  side  of  the 
bordj,"  she  answered. 

"Yes.     But  why?" 

"  I  thought  that  to-night  it  would  be  better  if  we  were  a  little 
more  alone  than  we  are  here,  just  opposite  to  that  Cafe  Maure, 
and  with  the  servants.  And  on  the  other  side  there  are  the 
palms  and  the  water.  And  the  doves  were  talking  there  as  we 
rode  in.  When  we  have  finished  dinner  we  can  go  and  sit 
there  and  be  quiet." 

"  Together,"  he  said. 

An  eager  light  had  come  into  his  eyes.  He  leaned  forward 
towards  her  over  the  little  table  and  stretched  out  his  hand. 

"  Yes,  together,"  she  said. 

But  she  did  not  take  his  hand. 


THE   JOURNEY   BACK  453 

"  Domini !  "  he  said,  still  keeping  his  hand  on  the  table, 
"Domini!" 

An  expression,  that  was  like  an  expression  of  agony,  flitted 
over  her  face  and  died  away,  leaving  it  calm. 

"  Let  us  finish,"  she  said  quietly.  "  Look,  they  have  taken 
the  tents !  In  a  moment  we  can  go." 

The  doves  were  silent.  The  night  was  very  still  in  this  nest 
of  the  Sahara.  Ouardi  brought  them  coffee,  and  Batouch  came 
to  say  that  the  tents  were  ready. 

"  We  shall  want  nothing  more  to-night,  Batouch,"  Domini 
said.  "  Don't  disturb  us." 

Batouch  glanced  towards  the  Cafe  Maure.  A  red  light 
gleamed  through  its  low  doorway.  One  or  two  Arabs  were 
moving  within.  Some  of  the  camp  attendants  had  joined  the 
squatting  men  without.  A  noise  of  busy  voices  reached  the 
tents. 

"  To-night,  Madame,"  Batouch  said  proudly,  "  I  am  going  to 
tell  stories  from  the  Thousand  and  One  Nights.  I  am  going  to 
tell  the  story  of  the  young  Prince  of  the  Indies,  and  the  story  of 
Ganem,  the  Slave  of  Love.  It  is  not  often  that  in  Ain-la- 
Hammam  a  poet " 

"  No,  indeed.  Go  to  them,  Batouch.  They  must  be  im- 
patient for  you." 

Batouch  smiled  broadly. 

"  Madame  begins  to  understand  the  Arabs,"  he  rejoined. 
"  Madame  will  soon  be  as  the  Arabs." 

"  Go,  Batouch.     Look — they  are  longing  for  you." 

She  pointed  to  the  desert  men,  who  were  gesticulating  and 
gazing  towards  the  tents. 

"  It  is  better  so,  Madame,"  he  answered.  "  They  know  that 
I  am  here  only  for  one  night,  and  they  are  eager  as  the  hungry 
jackal  is  eager  for  food  among  the  yellow  dunes  of  the  sand." 

He  threw  his  burnous  over  his  shoulder  and  moved  away 
smiling,  and  murmuring  in  a  luscious  voice  the  first  words  of 
Ganem,  the  Slave  of  Love. 

"  Let  us  go  now,  Boris,"  Domini  said. 

He  got  up  at  once  from  the  table,  and  they  walked  together 
round  the  bordj. 

On  its  further  side  there  was  no  sign  of  life.  No  traveller 
was  resting  there  that  night,  and  the  big  door  that  led  into  the 
inner  court  was  closed  and  barred.  The  guardian  had  gone  to 
join  the  Arabs  at  the  Cafe  Maure.  Between  the  shadow  cast  by 
the  bordj  and  the  shadow  cast  by  the  palm  trees  stood  the  two 


454  THE    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH 

tents  on  a  patch  of  sand.  The  oasis  was  enclosed  in  a  low  earth 
wall,  along  the  top  of  which  was  a  ragged  edging  of  brushwood. 
In  this  wall  were  several  gaps.  Through  one,  opposite  to  the 
tents,  was  visible  a  shallow  pool  of  still  water  by  which  tall 
reeds  were  growing.  They  stood  up  like  spears,  ^absolutely 
motionless.  A  frog  was  piping  from  some  hidden  place,  giving 
forth  a  clear  flute-like  note  that  suggested  glass.  It  reminded 
Domini  of  her  ride  into  the  desert  at  Beni-Mora  to  see  the 
moon  rise.  On  that  night  Androvsky  had  told  her  that  he  was 
going  away.  That  had  been  the  night  of  his  tremendous 
struggle  with  himself.  When  he  had  spoken  she  had  felt  a 
sensation  as  if  everything  that  supported  her  in  the  atmosphere 
of  life  and  of  happiness  had  foundered.  And  now — now  she 
was  going  to  speak  to  him — to  tell  him — what  was  she  going  to 
tell  him?  How  much  could  she,  dared  she,  tell  him?  She 
prayed  silently  to  be  given  strength. 

In  the  clear  sky  the  young  moon  hung.  Beneath  it,  to  the 
left,  was  one  star  like  an  attendant,  the  star  of  Venus.  The 
faint  light  of  the  moon  fell  upon  the  water  of  the  pool.  Un- 
ceasingly the  frog  uttered  its  nocturne. 

Domini  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  the  water  listening. 
Then  she  glanced  up  at  the  moon  and  the  solitary  star. 
Androvsky  stood  by  her. 

"  Shall  we — let  us  sit  on  the  wall,  where  the  gap  is,"  she  said. 
'  The  water  is  beautiful,  beautiful  with  that  light  on  it,  and  the 
palms — palms  are  always  beautiful,  especially  at  night.  I  shall 
never  love  any  other  trees  as  I  love  palm  trees." 

"  Nor  I,"  he  answered. 

They  sat  down  on  the  wall.  At  first  they  did  not  speak  any 
more.  The  stillness  of  the  water,  the  stillness  of  reeds  and 
palms,  was  against  speech.  And  the  little  flute-like  note  that 
came  to  them  again  and  again  at  regular  intervals  was  like  a 
magical  measuring  of  the  silence  of  the  night  in  the  desert.  At 
last  Domini  said,  in  a  low  voice: 

"  I  heard  that  note  on  the  night  when  I  rode  out  of  Beni- 
Mora  to  see  the  moon  rise  in  the  desert.  Boris,  you  remember 
that  night  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered. 

He  was  gazing  at  the  pool,  with  his  face  partly  averted  from 
her,  one  hand  on  the  wall,  the  other  resting  on  his  knee. 

'*  You  were  brave  that  night,  Boris,"  she  said. 

"  I — I  wished  to  be — I  tried  to  be.  '  And  if  I  had  been " 

He  stopped,  then  went  on : 


THE   JOURNEY   BACK  455 

"  If  I  had  been,  Domini,  really  brave,  if  I  had  done  what  I 
meant  to  do  that  night,  what  would  our  lives  have  been  to- 
day?" 

"  I  don't  know.  We  mustn't  think  of  that  to-night.  We 
must  think  of  the  future.  Boris,  there's  no  life,  no  real  life 
without  bravery.  No  man  or  woman  is  worthy  of  living  who  is 
not  brave." 

He  said  nothing. 

"  Boris,  let  us — you  and  I — be  worthy  of  living  to-night — and 
in  the  future." 

"  Give  me  your  hand  then,"  he  answered.  "  Give  it  me, 
Domini." 

But  she  did  not  give  it  to  him.  Instead  she  went  on,  speak- 
ing a  little  more  rapidly: 

"  Boris,  don't  rely  too  much  on  my  strength.  I  am  only  a 
woman,  and  I  have  to  struggle.  I  have  had  to  struggle  more 
than  perhaps  you  will  ever  know.  You  must  not  make — make 
things  impossible  for  me.  I  am  trying — very  hard — to — I'm — 
you  must  not  touch  me  to-night,  Boris." 

She  drew  a  little  farther  away  from  him.  A  faint  breath  of 
air  made  the  leaves  of  the  palm  trees  rustle  slightly,  made  the 
reeds  move  for  an  instant  by  the  pool.  He  laid  his  hand  again 
on  the  wall  from  which  he  had  lifted  it.  There  was  a  pleading 
sound  in  her  voice  which  made  him  feel  as  if  it  were  speaking 
close  against  his  heart. 

"  I  said  I  would  tell  you  to-night  where  we  are  going." 

"  Tell  me  now." 

"  We  are  going  back  to  Beni-Mora.  We  are  not  very  far  off 
from  Beni-Mora  to-night — not  very  far." 

"  We  are  going  to  Beni-Mora!  "  he  repeated  in  a  dull  voice. 

«  ~\TtT  » 

He  sat  up  on  the  wall,  looking  straight  into  her  face. 

"Why?"  he  said.  His  voice  was  sharp  now,  sharp  with 
fear. 

"  Boris,  do  you  want  to  be  at  peace,  not  with  me,  but  with 
God  ?  Do  you  want  to  get  rid  of  your  burden  of  misery,  which 
increases — I  know  it — day  by  day  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  ?  "  he  said  hopelessly. 

"  Isn't  expiation  the  only  way  ?     I  think  it  is." 

"  Expiation !     How — how  can — I  can  never  expiate  my  sin." 

"  There's  no  sin  that  cannot  be  expiated.  God  isn't  merciless. 
Come  back  with  me  to  Beni-Mora.  That  little  church — where 
you  married  me — come  back  to  it  with  me.  You  could  not  con- 


456  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

fess  to  the — to  Father  Beret.  I  feel  as  if  I  knew  why.  Where 
you  married  me  you  will — you  must — make  your  confession." 

"  To  the  priest  who — to  Father  Roubier!  " 

There  was  fierce  protest  in  his  voice. 

"  It  does  not  matter  who  is  the  priest  who  will  receive  your 
confession.  Only  make  it  there — make  it  in  the  church  at 
Beni-Mora  where  you  married  me." 

"  That  was  your  purpose !  That  is  where  you  are  taking  me! 
I  can't  go,  I  won't !  Domini,  think  what  you  are  doing !  You 
are  asking  too  much " 

"  I  feel  that  God  is  asking  that  of  you.    Don't  refuse  Him." 

"  I  cannot  go — at  Beni-Mora  where  we — where  everything 
will  remind  us " 

"  Ah,  don't  you  think  I  shall  feel  it  too?  Don't  you  think  I 
shall  suffer?  " 

He  felt  horribly  ashamed  when  she  said  that,  bowed  down 
with  an  overwhelming  weight  of  shame. 

"  But  our  lives  " — he  stammered — "  but — if  I  go — afterwards 
— if  I  make  my  confession — afterwards — afterwards?  " 

"  Isn't  it  enough  to  think  of  that  one  thing?  Isn't  it  better 
to  put  everything  else,  every  other  thought,  away?  It  seems  so 
clear  to  me  that  we  should  go  to  Beni-Mora.  I  feel  as  if  I  had 
been  told — as  a  child  is  told  to  do  something  by  its  father." 

She  looked  up  into  the  clear  sky. 

"  I  am  sure  I  have  been  told,"  she  added.     "  I  know  I  ha\e." 

There  was  a  long  silence  between  them.  Androvsky  felt  that 
he  did  not  dare  to  break  it.  Something  in  Domini's  face  and 
voice  cast  out  from  him  the  instinct  of  revolt,  of  protest.  He 
began  to  feel  exhausted,  without  power,  like  a  sick  man  who  is 
being  carried  by  bearers  in  a  litter,  and  who  looks  at  the  land- 
scape through  which  he  is  passing  with  listless  eyes,  and  who 
scarcely  has  the  force  to  care  whither  he  is  being  borne. 

"  Domini,"  he  said  at  last,  and  his  voice  sounded  very  tired, 
"  if  you  say  I  must  go  to  Beni-Mora  I  will  go.  I  have  done  you 
a  great  wrong  and — and " 

"  Don't  think  of  me  any  more,"  she  said.  "  Think — think 

as  I  do — of — of What  am  I  ?  I  have  loved  you,  I  shall 

always  love  you,  but  I  am  as  you  are,  here  for  a  little  while, 
elsewhere  for  all  eternity.  You  told  him — that  man  in  the 
monastery — that  we  are  shadows  set  in  a  world  of  shadows." 

'  That  was  a  lie,"  he  interrupted,  and  the  weariness  had  gone 
out  of  his  voice.  "  When  I  said  that  I  had  never  loved,  I  had 
never  loved  you." 


THE   JOURNEY   BACK  457 

"  Or  was  it  a  half-truth  ?  Aren't  we,  perhaps,  shadow  now 
in  comparison  to  what  we  shall  be?  Isn't  this  world,  even  this 
— this  desert,  this  pool  with  the  light  on  it,  this  silence  of  the 
night  around  us — isn't  all  this  a  shadow  in  comparison  to  the 
world  where  we  are  going,  you  and  I  ?  Boris,  I  think  if  we  are 
brave  now  we  shall  be  together  in  that  world.  But  if  we  are 
cowards  now,  I  think,  I  am  sure,  that  in  that  world — the  real 
world — we  shall  be  separated  for  ever.  You  and  I,  whatever 
we  may  be,  whatever  we  may  have  done,  at  least  are  one  thing — 
we  are  believers.  We  don't  think  this  is  all.  If  we  did  it 
would  be  different.  But  we  can't  change  the  truth  that  is  in 
our  souls,  and  as  we  can't  change  it  we  must  live  by  it,  we 
must  act  by  it.  We  can't  do  anything  else.  I  can't — and 
you?  Don't  you  feel,  don't  you  know,  that  you  can't?  " 

"  To-night,"  he  said,  "  I  feel  that  I  know  nothing — nothing 
except  that  I  am  suffering." 

His  voice  broke  on  the  last  words.  Tears  were  shining  in 
his  eyes.  After  a  long  silence  he  said: 

"  Domini,  take  me  where  you  will.  If  it  is  to  Beni-Mora  I 
will  go.  But — but — afterwards?" 

"  Afterwards "  she  said. 

Then  she  stopped. 

The  little  note  of  the  frog  sounded  again  and  again  by  the 
still  water  among  the  reeds.  The  moon  was  higher  in  the 
sky. 

"  Don't  let  us  think  of  afterwards,  Boris,"  she  said  at  length. 
"  That  song  we  have  heard  together,  that  song  we  love — '  No 
one  but  God  and  I  knows  what  is  in  my  heart.'  I  hear  it  now 
so  often,  always  almost.  It  seems  to  gather  meaning,  it  seems 
to — God  knows  what  is  in  your  heart  and  mine.  He  will 
take  care  of  the — afterwards.  Perhaps  in  our  hearts  already  He 
has  put  a  secret  knowledge  of  the  end." 

"  Has  He — has  He  put  it — that  knowledge — into  yours?  " 

"Hush!  "she  said. 

They  spoke  no  more  that  night. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  caravan  of  Domini  and  Androvsky  was  leaving  Arba. 
Already  the  tents  and  the  attendants,  with  the  camels  and  the 
mules,  were  winding  slowly  along  the  plain  through  the  scrub  in 
the  direction  of  the  mountains  and  the  dark  shadow  which 


458  THE   GARDEN   OF   ALLAH 

indicated  the  oasis  of  Beni-Mora.  Batouch  was  with  them. 
Domini  and  Androvsky  were  going  to  be  alone  on  this  last  stage 
of  their  desert  journey.  They  had  mounted  their  horses  before 
the  great  door  of  the  bordj,  said  good-bye  to  the  Sheikh  of  Arba, 
scattered  some  money  among  the  ragged  Arabs  gathered  to 
watch  them  go,  and  cast  one  last  look  behind  them. 

In  that  mutual,  instinctive  look  back  they  were  both  bidding 
a  silent  farewell  to  the  desert,  that  had  sheltered  their  passion, 
surely  taken  part  in  the  joy  of  their  love,  watched  the  sorrow 
and  the  terror  grow  in  it  to  the  climax  at  Amara,  and  was  now 
whispering  to  them  a  faint  and  mysterious  farewell. 

To  Domini  the  desert  had  always  been  as  a  great  and  signifi- 
cant personality,  a  personality  that  had  called  her  persistently 
to  come  to  it.  Now,  as  she  turned  on  her  horse,  she  felt  as  if  it 
were  calling  her  no  longer,  as  if  its  mission  to  her  were  ac- 
complished, as  if  its  voice  had  sunk  into  a  deep  and  breathless 
silence.  She  wondered  if  Androvsky  felt  this  too,  but  she  did 
not  ask  him.  His  face  was  pale  and  severe.  His  eyes  stared 
into  the  distance.  His  hands  lay  on  his  horse's  neck  like  tired 
things  with  no  more  power  to  grip  and  hold.  His  lips  were 
slightly  parted,  and  she  heard  the  sound  of  his  breath  coming 
and  going  like  the  breath  of  a  man  who  is  struggling.  This 
sound  warned  her  not  to  try  his  strength  or  hers. 

"Come,  Boris,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  held  none  of  the  pas- 
sionate regret  that  was  in  her  heart,  "  we  mustn't  linger,  ^r  it 
will  be  night  before  we  reach  Beni-Mora." 

"  Let  it  be  night,"  he  said.     "  Dark  night !  " 

The  horses  moved  slowly  on,  descending  the  hill  on  which 
stood  the  bordj. 

"  Dark — dark  night !  "  he  said  again. 

She  said  nothing.  They  rode  into  the  plain.  When  they 
were  there  he  said: 

"  Domini,  do  you  understand — do  you  realise?" 

"  What,  Boris  ?  "  she  asked  quietly. 

"  All  that  we  are  leaving  to-day?  " 

"  Yes,  I  understand." 

"  Are  we — are  we  leaving  it  for  ever?  " 

"  We  must  not  think  of  that." 

"  How  can  we  help  it?  What  else  can  we  think  of?  Can 
one  govern  the  mind  ?  " 

"  Surely,  if  we  can  govern  the  heart." 

"  Sometimes,"  he  said,  "  sometimes  I  wonder " 

He  looked  at  her.     Something  in  her  face  made  it  impossible 


THE   JOURNEY  BACK  459 

for  him  to  go  on,  to  say  what  he  had  been  going  to  say.  But 
she  understood  the  unfinished  sentence. 

"  If  you  can  wonder,  Boris,"  she  said,  "  you  don't  know  me, 
you  don't  know  me  at  all !  " 

"  Domini,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  wonder.  But  sometimes  I 
understand  your  strength,  and  sometimes  it  seems  to  me  scarcely 
human,  scarcely  the  strength  of  a  woman." 

She  lifted  her  whip  and  pointed  to  the  dark  shadow  far 
away. 

"  I  can  just  see  the  tower,"  she  said.     "  Can't  you?  " 

"  I  will  not  look,"  he  said.  "  I  cannot.  If  you  can,  you  are 
stronger  than  I.  When  I  remember  that  it  was  on  that  tower 
you  first  spoke  to  me — oh,  Domini,  if  we  could  only  go  back! 
It  is  in  our  power.  We  have  only  to  draw  a  rein  and — 
and " 

"  I  look  at  the  tower,"  she  said,  "  as  once  I  looked  at  the 
desert.  It  calls  us,  the  shadow  of  the  palm  trees  calls  us,  as 
once  the  desert  did." 

"  But  the  voice — what  a  different  voice !  Can  you  listen 
to  it?" 

"  I  have  been  listening  to  it  ever  since  we  left  Amara.  Yes, 
it  is  a  different  voice,  but  we  must  obey  it  as  we  obeyed  the 
voice  of  the  desert.  Don't  you  feel  that  ?  " 

"  If  I  do  it  is  because  you  tell  me  to  feel  it ;  you  tell  me  that 
I  must  feel  it." 

His  words  seemed  to  hurt  her.  An  expression  of  pain  came 
into  her  face. 

"  Boris,"  she  said,  "  don't  make  me  regret  too  terribly  that 
I  ever  came  into  your  life.  When  you  speak  like  that  I  feel 
almost  as  if  you  were  putting  me  in  the  place  of — of — I  feel 
as  if  you  were  depending  upon  me  for  everything  that  you  are 
doing,  as  if  you  were  letting  your  own  will  fall  asleep.  The 
desert  brings  dreams.  I  know  that.  But  we,  you  and  I,  we 
must  not  dream  any  more." 

"  A  dream,  you  call  it — the  life  we  have  lived  together,  our 
desert  life?" 

"  Boris,  I  only  mean  that  we  must  live  strongly  now,  act 
strongly  now,  that  we  must  be  brave.  I  have  always  felt  that 
there  was  strength  in  you." 

"  Strength !  "  he  said  bitterly. 

"  Yes.  Otherwise  I  could  never  have  loved  you.  Don't  ever 
prove  to  me  that  I  was  utterly  wrong.  I  can  bear  a  great  deal. 
But  that — I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  bear  that." 


460  THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH 

After  a  moment  he  answered: 

"  I  will  try  to  give  you  nothing  more  to  bear  for  me." 

And  he  lifted  his  eyes  and  fixed  them  upon  the  tower  with  a 
sort  of  stern  intentness,  as  a  man  looks  at  something  cruel, 
terrible. 

She  saw  him  do  this. 

"  Let  us  ride  quicker,"  she  said.  "  To-night  we  must  be  in 
Beni-Mora." 

He  said  nothing,  but  he  touched  his  horse  with  his  heel.  His 
eyes  were  always  fixed  upon  the  tower,  as  if  they  feared  to  look 
at  the  desert  any  more.  She  understood  that  when  he  had  said 
"  I  will  try  to  give  you  nothing  more  to  bear  for  me,"  he  had 
not  spoken  idly.  He  had  waked  up  from  the  egoism  of  his 
despair.  He  had  been  able  to  see  more  clearly  into  her  heart,  to 
feel  more  rightly  what  she  was  feeling  than  he  had  before.  As 
she  watched  him  watching  the  tower,  she  had  a  sensation  that 
a  bond,  a  new  bond  between  them,  was  chaining  them  together 
in  a  new  way.  Was  it  not  a  bond  that  would  be  strong  and 
lasting,  that  the  future,  whatever  it  held,  would  not  be  able  to 
break?  Ties,  sacred  ties,  that  had  bound  them  together  might, 
must,  be  snapped  asunder.  And  the  end  was  not  yet.  She  saw, 
as  she  gazed  at  the  darkness  of  the  palms  of  Beni-Mora,  a 
greater  darkness  approaching,  deeper  than  any  darkness  of 
palms,  than  any  darkness  of  night.  But  now  she  saw  also  a  ray 
of  light  in  the  gloom,  the  light  of  the  dawning  strength,  the 
dawning  unselfishness  in  Androvsky.  And  she  resolved  to  fix 
her  eyes  upon  it  as  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  tower. 

Just  after  sunset  they  rode  into  Beni-Mora  in  advance  of  the 
camp,  which  they  had  passed  upon  their  way.  To  the  right  were 
the  trees  of  Count  Anteoni's  garden.  Domini  felt  them,  but  she 
did  not  look  towards  them.  Nor  did  Androvsky.  They  kept 
their  eyes  fixed  upon  the  distance  of  the  white  road.  Only 
when  they  reached  the  great  hotel,  now  closed  and  deserted,  did 
she  glance  away.  She  could  not  pass  the  tower  without  seeing 
it.  But  she  saw  it  through  a  mist  of  tears,  and  her  hands  trem- 
bled upon  the  reins  they  held.  For  a  moment  she  felt  that  she 
must  break  down,  that  she  had  no  more  strength  left  in  her. 
But  they  came  to  the  statue  of  the  Cardinal  holding  the  double 
cross  towards  the  desert  like  a  weapon.  And  she  looked  at  it 
and  saw  the  Christ. 

"  Boris,"  she  whispered,  "  there  is  the  Christ.  Let  us  think 
only  of  that  to-night." 

She  saw  him  look  at  it  steadily. 


THE   JOURNEY   BACK  461 

"  You  remember,"  she  said,  "  at  the  bottom  of  the  avenue  of 
cypresses — at  El-Largani — Factus  obediens  usque  ad  mortem 
Crucis?  " 

"  Yes,  Domini." 

"  We  can  be  obedient  too.     Let  us  be  obedient  too." 

When  she  said  that,  and  looked  at  him,  Androvsky  felt  as  if 
he  were  on  his  knees  before  her,  as  he  was  upon  his  knees  in  the 
garden  when  he  could  not  go  away.  But  he  felt,  too,  that  then, 
though  he  had  loved  her,  he  had  not  known  how  to  love  her, 
how  to  love  anyone.  She  had  taught  him  now.  The  lesson 
sank  into  his  heart  like  a  sword  and  like  balm.  It  was  as  if  he 
were  slain  and  healed  by  the  same  stroke. 

That  night,  as  Domini  lay  in  the  lonely  room  in  the  hotel, 
with  the  French  windows  open  to  the  verandah,  she  heard  the 
church  clock  chime  the  hour  and  the  distant  sound  of  the  Afri- 
can hautboy  in  the  street  of  the  dancers,  she  heard  again  the 
two  voices.  The  hautboy  was  barbarous  and  provocative,  but 
she  thought  that  it  was  no  more  shrill  with  a  persistent  triumph. 
Presently  the  church  bell  chimed  again. 

Was  it  the  bell  of  the  church  of  Beni-Mora,  or  the  bell  of  the 
chapel  of  El-Largani?  Or  was  it  not  rather  the  voice  of  the 
great  religion  to  which  she  belonged,  to  which  Androvsky  was 
returning  ? 

When  it  ceased  she  whispered  to  herself,  "  Factus  obediens 
usque  ad  mortem  Crucis. Jf  And  with  these  words  upon  her  lips 
towards  dawn  she  fell  asleep.  They  had  dined  upstairs  in  the 
little  room  that  had  formerly  been  Domini's  salon,  and  had  not 
seen  Father  Roubier,  who  always  came  to  the  hotel  to  take  his 
evening  meal.  In  the  morning,  after  they  had  breakfasted, 
Androvsky  said: 

"  Domini,  I  will  go.     I  will  go  now." 

He  got  up  and  stood  by  her,  looking  down  at  her.  In  his 
face  there  was  a  sort  of  sternness,  a  set  expression. 

"  To  Father  Roubier,  Boris?  "  she  said. 

"Yes.  Before  I  go  won't  you — won't  you  give  me  your 
hand?" 

She  understood  all  the  agony  of  spirit  he  was  enduring,  all 
the  shame  against  which  he  was  fighting.  She  longed  to  spring 
up,  to  take  him  in  her  arms,  to  comfort  him  as  only  the  woman 
he  loves  and  who  loves  him  can  comfort  a  man,  without  words, 
by  the  pressure  of  her  arms,  the  pressure  of  her  lips,  the  beating 
of  her  heart  against  his  heart.  She  longed  to  do  this  so  ardently 
that  she  moved  restlessly,  looking  up  at  him  with  a  light  in  her 


462  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

eyes  that  he  had  never  seen  in  them  before,  not  even  when  they 
watched  the  fire  dying  down  at  Arba.  But  she  did  not  lift  her 
hand  to  his. 

"  Boris,"  she  said,  "  go.     God  will  be  with  you." 

After  a  moment  she  added : 

"  And  all  my  heart." 

He  stood,  as  if  waiting,  a  long  time.  She  had  ceased  from 
moving  and  had  withdrawn  her  eyes  from  his.  In  his  soul  a 
voice  was  saying,  "If  she  does  not  touch  you  now  she  will 
never  touch  you  again."  And  he  waited.  He  could  not  help 
waiting. 

"  Boris,"  she  whispered,  "  good-bye." 

"Good-bye?  "he  said. 

"  Come  to  me — afterwards.  Come  to  me  in  the  garden.  I 
shall  be  there  where  we — I  shall  be  there  waiting  for  you." 

He  went  out  without  another  word. 

When  he  was  gone  she  went  on  to  the  verandali  quickly  and 
looked  over  the  parapet.  She  saw  him  come  out  from  beneath 
the  arcade  and  walk  slowly  across  the  road  to  the  little  gate  of 
the  enclosure  before  the  house  of  the  priest.  As  he  lifted  his 
hands  to  open  the  gate  there  was  the  sound  of  a  bark,  and  she 
saw  Bous-Bous  run  out  with  a  manner  of  stern  inquiry,  which 
quickly  changed  to  joyful  welcome  as  he  recognised  an  old 
acquaintance.  Androvsky  bent  down,  took  up  the  littl?  dog  in 
his  arms,  and,  holding  him,  walked  to  the  house  door.  In  a 
moment  it  was  opened  and  he  went  in.  Then  Domini  set  out 
towards  the  garden,  avoiding  the  village  street,  and  taking  a 
byway  which  skirted  the  desert.  She  walked  quickly.  She 
longed  to  be  within  the  shadows  of  the  garden  behind  the  white 
wall.  She  did  not  feel  much,  think  much,  as  she  walked. 
Without  self-consciously  knowing  it  she  was  holding  all  her 
nature,  the  whole  of  herself,  fiercely  in  check.  She  did  not  look 
about  her,  did  not  see  the  sunlit  reaches  of  the  desert,  or  the 
walls  of  the  houses  of  Beni-Mora,  or  the  palm  trees.  Only 
when  she  had  passed  the  hotel  and  the  negro  village  and  turned 
to  the  left,  to  the  track  at  the  edge  of  which  the  villa  of  Count 
Anteoni  stood,  did  she  lift  her  eyes  from  the  ground.  They 
rested  on  the  white  arcade  framing  the  fierce  blue  of  the  cloud- 
less sky.  She  stopped  short.  Her  nature  seemed  to  escape 
from  the  leash  by  which  she  had  held  it  in  with  a  rush,  to  leap 
forward,  to  be  in  the  garden  and  in  the  past,  in  the  past  with 
its  passion  and  its  fiery  hopes,  its  magnificent  looking  forward, 
its  holy  desires  of  joy  that  would  crown  her  woman's  life,  of 


THE   JOURNEY   BACK  463 

love  that  would  teach  her  all  the  depth,  and  the  height,  and 
the  force  and  the  submission  of  her  womanhood.  And  then, 
from  that  past,  it  strove  on  into  the  present.  The  shock  was  as 
the  shock  of  battle.  There  were  noises  in  her  ears,  voices  clam- 
ouring in  her  heart.  All  her  pulses  throbbed  like  hammers,  and 
then  suddenly  she  felt  as  weak  as  a  little  sick  child,  and  as  if  she 
must  lie  down  there  on  the  dust  of  the  white  road  in  the  sun- 
shine, lie  down  and  die  at  the  edge  of  the  desert  that  had  treated 
her  cruelly,  that  had  slain  the  hopes  it  had  given  to  her  and 
brought  into  her  heart  this  terrible  despair. 

For  now  she  knew  a  moment  of  utter  despair,  in  which  all 
things  seemed  to  dissolve  into  atoms  and  sink  down  out  of 
her  sight.  She  stood  quivering  in  blackness.  She  stood 
absolutely  alone,  more  absolutely  alone  than  any  woman  had 
ever  been,  than  any  human  being  had  ever  been.  She  seemed 
presently,  as  the  blackness  faded  into  something  pale,  like  a 
ghastly  twilight,  to  see  herself — her  wraith,  as  it  were — stand- 
ing in  a  vast  landscape,  vast  as  the  desert,  companionless,  lost, 
forgotten,  out  of  mind,  watching  for  something  that  would 
never  come,  listening  for  some  voice  that  was  hushed  in  eternal 
silence. 

That  was  to  be  her  life,  she  thought — could  she  face  it? 
Could  she  endure  it?  And  everything  within  her  said  to  her 
that  she  could  not. 

And  then,  just  then,  when  she  felt  that  she  must  sink  down 
and  give  up  the  battle  of  life,  she  seemed  to  see  by  her  side  a 
shape,  a  little  shape  like  a  child.  And  it  lifted  up  a  hand  to  her 
hand. 

And  she  knew  that  the  vast  landscape  was  God's  garden,  the 
Garden  of  Allah,  and  that  no  day,  no  night  could  ever  pass 
without  God  walking  in  it. 

Hearing  a  knock  upon  the  great  gate  of  the  garden  Smain 
uncurled  himself  on  his  mat  within  the  tent,  rose  lazily  to  his 
feet,  and,  without  a  rose,  strolled  languidly  to  open  to  the 
visitor.  Domini  stood  without.  When  he  saw  her  he  smiled 
quietly,  with  no  surprise. 

"  Madame  has  returned  ?  " 

Domini  smiled  at  him,  but  her  lips  were  trembling,  and  she 
said  nothing. 

,   Smain  observed  her  with  a  dawning  of  curiosity. 
,    "  Madame  is  changed,"  he  said  at  length.     "  Madame  looks 
tired.    The  sun  is  hot  in  the  desert  now.    It  is  better  here  in  the 
garden." 


464  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

With  an  effort  she  controlled  herself. 

"  Yes,  Sma'in,"  she  answered,  "  it  is  better  here.  But  I  can- 
not stay  here  long." 

"  You  are  going  away  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  going  away." 

She  saw  more  quiet  questions  fluttering  on  his  lips,  and 
added : 

"  And  now  I  want  to  walk  in  the  garden  alone." 

He  waved  his  hand  towards  the  trees. 

"  It  is  all  for  Madame.  Monsieur  the  Count  has  always 
said  so.  But  Monsieur?" 

"  He  is  in  Beni-Mora.     He  is  coming  presently  to  fetch  me." 

Then  she  turned  away  and  walked  slowly  across  the  great 
sweep  of  sand  towards  the  trees  and  was  taken  by  their  dark- 
ness. She  heard  again  the  liquid  bubbling  of  the  hidden  water- 
fall, and  was  again  companioned  by  the  mystery  of  this  desert 
Paradise,  but  it  no  longer  whispered  to  her  of  peace  for  her.  It 
murmured  only  its  own  personal  peace  and  accentuated  her  own 
personal  agony  and  struggle.  All  that  it  had  been  it  still  was, 
but  all  that  she  had  been  in  it  was  changed.  And  she  felt  the 
full  terror  of  Nature's  equanimity  environing  the  fierce  and  tor- 
tured lives  of  men. 

As  she  walked  towards  the  deepest  recesses  of  che  garden 
along  the  winding  tracks  between  the  rills  she  had  no  sensation 
of  approaching  the  hidden  home  of  the  Geni  of  the  garden. 
Yet  she  remembered  acutely  all  her  first  feelings  there.  Not  one 
was  forgotten.  They  returned  to  her  like  spectres  stealing 
across  the  sand.  They  lurked  like  spectres  among  the  dense 
masses  of  the  trees.  She  strove  not  to  see  their  pale  shapes,  not 
to  hear  their  terrible  voices.  She  strove  to  draw  calm  once  more 
from  this  infinite  calm  of  silently-growing  things  aspiring 
towards  the  sun.  But  with  each  step  she  took  the  torment  in 
her  heart  increased.  At  last  she  came  to  the  deeper  darkness 
and  the  blanched  sand,  and  saw  pine  needles  strewed  about  her 
feet.  Then  she  stood  still,  instinctively  listening  for  a  sound 
that  would  complete  the  magic  of  the  garden  and  her  own 
despair.  She  waited  for  it.  She  even  felt,  strangely,  that  she 
wanted,  that  she  needed  it — the  sound  of  the  flute  of  Larbi 
playing  his  amorous  tune.  But  his  flute  to-day  was  silent. 
Had  he  fallen  out  of  an  old  love  and  not  yet  found  a  new?  or 
had  he,  perhaps,  gone  away  ?  or  was  he  dead  ?  For  a  long  time 
she  stood  there,  thinking  about  Larbi.  He  and  his  flute  and  his 
love  were  mingled  with  her  life  in  the  desert.  And  she  felt 


THE  JOURNEY  BACK  465 

that  she  could  not  leave  the  desert  without  bidding  them  fare- 
well. 

But  the  silence  lasted  and  she  went  on  and  came  to  the 
fumoir.  She  went  into  it  at  once  and  sat  down.  She  was 
going  to  wait  for  Androvsky  here. 

Her  mind  was  straying  curiously  to-day.  Suddenly  she  found 
herself  thinking  of  the  fanatical  religious  performance  she  had 
seen  with  Hadj  on  the  night  when  she  had  ridden  out  to  watch 
the  moon  rise.  She  saw  in  imagination  the  bowing  bodies,  the 
foaming  mouths,  the  glassy  eyes  of  the  young  priests  of  the 
Sahara.  She  saw  the  spikes  behind  their  eyeballs,  the  struggling 
scorpions  descending  into  their  throats,  the  flaming  coals  under 
their  arm-pits,  the  nails  driven  into  their  heads.  She  heard  them 
growling  as  they  saw  the  glass,  like  hungry  beasts  at  the  sight  of 
meat.  And  all  this  was  to  them  religion.  This  madness  was 
their  conception  of  worship.  A  voice  seemed  to  whisper  to  her : 
"  And  your  madness?  " 

It  was  like  the  voice  that  whispered  to  Androvsky  in  the 
cemetery  of  El-Largani,  "  Come  out  with  me  into  that  world, 
that  beautiful  world  which  God  made  for  men.  Why  do  you 
reject  it?  " 

For  a  moment  she  saw  all  religions,  all  the  practices,  the  re- 
nunciations of  the  religions  of  the  world,  as  varying  forms  of 
madness.  She  compared  the  self-denial  of  the  monk  with  the 
fetish  worship  of  the  savage.  And  a  wild  thrill  of  something 
that  was  almost  like  joy  rushed  through  her,  the  joy  that  some- 
times comes  to  the  unbelievers  when  they  are  about  to  commit 
some  act  which  they  feel  would  be  contrary  to  God's  will  if 
there  were  a  God.  It  was  a  thrill  of  almost  insolent  human 
emancipation.  The  soul  cried  out:  "  I  have  no  master.  When 
I  thought  I  had  a  master  I  was  mad.  Now  I  am  sane." 

But  it  passed  almost  as  it  came,  like  a  false  thing  slinking 
from  the  sunlight,  and  Domini  bowed  her  head  in  the  obscurity 
of  Count  Anteoni's  thinking-place  and  returned  to  her  true  self. 
That  moment  had  been  like  the  moment  upon  the  tower  when 
she  saw  below  her  the  Jewess  dancing  upon  the  roof  for  the 
soldiers,  a  black  speck  settling  for  an  instant  upon  whiteness, 
then  carried  away  by  a  purifying  wind.  She  knew  that  she 
would  always  be  subject  to  such  moments  so  long  as  she  was  a 
human  being,  that  there  would  always  be  in  her  blood  some- 
thing that  was  self-willed.  Otherwise,  would  she  not  be  already 
in  Paradise?  She  sat  and  prayed  for  strength  in  the  battle  of 
life,  that  could  never  be  anything  else  but  a  battle. 


466  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

At  last  something  within  her  told  her  to  look  up,  to  look  out 
through  the  window-space  into  the  garden.  She  had  not  heard 
a  step,  but  she  knew  that  Androvsky  was  approaching,  and,  as 
she  looked  up,  she  prepared  herself  for  a  sight  that  would  be 
terrible.  She  remembered  his  face  when  he  came  to  bid  her 
good-bye  in  the  garden,  and  she  feared  to  see  his  face  now.  But 
she  schooled  herself  to  be  strong,  for  herself  and  for  him. 

He  was  near  her  on  the  path  coming  towards  her.  As  she 
saw  him  she  uttered  a  little  cry  and  stood  up.  An  immense  sur- 
prise came  to  her,  followed  in  a  moment  by  an  immense  joy — 
the  greatest  joy,  she  thought,  that  she  had  ever  experienced. 
For  she  looked  on  a  face  in  which  she  saw  for  the  first  time  a 
pale  dawning  of  peace.  There  was  sadness  in  it,  there  was  awe, 
but  there  was  a  light  of  calm,  such  as  sometimes  settles  upon  the 
faces  of  men  who  have  died  quietly  without  agony  or  fear.  And 
she  felt  fully,  as  she  saw  it,  the  rapture  of  having  refused  cow- 
ardice and  grasped  the  hand  of  bravery.  Directly  afterwards 
there  came  to  her  a  sensation  of  wonder  that  at  this  moment  of 
their  lives  she  and  Androvsky  should  be  capable  of  a  feeling 
of  joy,  of  peace.  When  the  wonder  passed  it  was  as  if  she  had 
seen  God  and  knew  for  ever  the  meaning  of  His  divine 
compensations. 

Androvsky  came  to  the  doorway  of  the  fumoir  without  look- 
ing up,  stood  still  there — just  where  Count  Anteoni  had  stood 
during  his  first  interview  with  Domini — and  said: 

"  Domini,  I  have  been  to  the  priest.  I  have  made  my  con- 
fession." 

"  Yes,"  she  said.     "  Yes,  Boris !" 

He  came  into  the  fumoir  and  sat  down  near  her,  but  not  close 
to  her,  on  one  of  the  divans.  Now  the  sad  look  in  his  face  had 
deepened  and  the  peace  seemed  to  be  fading.  She  had  thought 
of  the  dawn — that  pale  light  which  is  growing  into  day.  Now 
she  thought  of  the  twilight  which  is  fading  into  night.  And 
the  terrible  knowledge  struck  her,  "  I  am  the  troubler  of  his 
peace.  Without  me  only  could  he  ever  regain  fully  the  peace 
which  he  has  lost." 

"  Domini,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  her,  "  you  know  the  rest. 
You  meant  it  to  be  as  it  will  be  when  we  left  Amara." 

"Was  there  any  other  way?  Was  there  any  other  possible 
life  for  us — for  you — for  me?  " 

"  For  you !  "  he  said,  and  there  was  a  sound  almost  of  despair 
in  his  voice.  "  But  what  is  to  be  your  life?  I  have  never  pro- 
tected you — you  have  protected  me.  I  have  never  been  strong 


THE   JOURNEY   BACK  467 

for  you — you  have  been  strong  for  me.  But  to  leave  you — all 
alone,  Domini,  must  I  do  that?  Must  I  think  of  you  out  in  the 
world  alone?  " 

For  a  moment  she  was  tempted  to  break  her  silence,  to  tell 
him  the  truth,  that  she  would  perhaps  not  be  alone,  that  another 
life,  sprung  from  his  and  hers,  was  coming  to  be  with  her,  was 
coming  to  share  the  great  loneliness  that  lay  before  her.  But 
she  resisted  the  temptation  and  only  said: 

"  Do  not  think  of  me,  Boris." 

"  You  tell  me  not  to  think  of  you!  "  he  said  with  an  almost 
fierce  wonder.  "  Do  you — do  you  wish  me  not  to  think  of 
you?" 

"  What  I  wish — that  is  so  little,  but — no,  Boris,  I  can't  say — 
I  don't  think  I  could  ever  truly  say  that  I  wish  you  to  think  no 
more  of  me.  After  all,  one  has  a. heart,  and  I  think  if  it's  worth 
anything  it  must  be  often  a  rebellious  heart.  I  know  mine  is 
rebellious.  But  if  you  don't  think  too  mujch  of  me — when  you 
are  there " 

She  paused,  and  they  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment  in 
silence.  Then  she  continued: 

"  Surely  it  will  be  easier  for  you,  happier  for  you." 

Androvsky  clenched  his  right  hand  on  the  divan  and  turned 
round  till  he  was  facing  her  full.  His  eyes  blazed. 

"  Domini,"  he  said,  "  you  are  truthful.  I'll  be  truthful  to 
you.  Till  the  end  of  my  life  I'll  think  of  you — every  day,  every 
hour.  If  it  were  mortal  sin  to  think  of  you  I  would  commit  it — 
yes,  Domini,  deliberately,  I  would  commit  it.  But — God 
doesn't  ask  so  much  of  us;  no,  God  doesn't.  I've  made  my 
confession.  I  know  what  I  must  do.  I'll  do  it.  You  are  right 
— you  are  always  right — you  are  guided,  I  know  that.  But  I 
will  think  of  you.  And  I'll  tell  you  something — don't  shirk 
from  it,  because  it's  truth,  the  truth  of  my  soul,  and  you 
love  truth.  Domini " 

Suddenly  he  got  up  from  the  divan  and  stood  before  her, 
looking  down  at  her  steadily. 

"  Domini,  I  can't  regret  that  I  have  seen  you,  that  we  have 
been  together,  that  we  have  loved  each  other,  that  we  do  love 
each  other  for  ever.  I  can't  regret  it ;  I  can't  even  try  or  wish 
to.  I  can't  regret  that  I  have  learned  from  you  the  meaning  of 
life.  I  know  that  God  has  punished  me  for  what  I  have  done. 
In  my  love  for  you — till  I  told  you  the  truth,  that  other  truth — 
I  never  had  a  moment  of  peace — of  exultation,  yes,  of  passion- 
ate exultation ;  but  never,  never  a  moment  of  peace.  For  always, 


468  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

even  in  the  most  beautiful  moments,  there  has  been  agony  for 
me.  For  always  I  have  known  that  I  was  sinning  against  God 
and  you,  against  myself,  my  eternal  vows.  And  yet  now  I  tell 
you,  Domini,  as  I  have  told  God  since  I  have  been  able  to  pray 
again,  that  I  am  glad,  thankful,  that  I  have  loved  you,  been 
loved  by  you.  Is  it  wicked?  I  don't  know.  I  can  scarcely 
even  care,  because  it's  true.  And  how  can  I  deny  the  truth, 
strive  against  truth?  I  am  as  I  am,  and  I  am  that.  God  has 
made  me  that.  God  will  forgive  me  for  being  as  I  am.  I'm 
not  afraid.  I  believe — I  dare  to  believe — that  He  wishes  me 
to  think  of  you  always  till  the  end  of  my  life.  I  dare  to  believe 
that  He  would  almost  hate  me  if  I  could  ever  cease  from  loving 
you.  That's  my  other  confession — my  confession  to  you.  I 
was  born,  perhaps,  to  be  a  monk.  But  I  was  born,  too,  that  I 
might  love  you  and  know  your  love,  your  beauty,  your  tender- 
ness, your  divinity.  If  I  had  not  known  you,  if  I  had  died  a 
monk,  a  good  monk  who  had  never  denied  his  vows,  I  should 
have  died — I  feel  it,  Domini — in  a  great,  a  terrible  ignorance. 
I  should  have  known  the  goodness  of  God,  but  I  should  never 
have  known  part,  a  beautiful  part,  of  His  goodness.  For  I 
should  never  have  known  the  goodness  that  He  has  put  into 
you.  He  has  taught  me  through  you.  He  has  tortured  me 
through  you;  yes,  but  through  you,  too,  He  has  made  me  un- 
derstand Him.  When  I  was  in  the  monastery,  when  I  was  at 
peace,  when  I  lost  myself  in  prayer,  when  I  was  absolutely 
pure,  absolutely — so  I  thought — the  child  of  God,  I  never 
really  knew  God.  Now,  Domini,  now  I  know  Him.  In  the 
worst  moments  of  the  new  agony  that  I  must  meet  at  least  I 
shall  always  have  that  help.  I  shall  always  feel  that  I  know 
what  God  is.  I  shall  always,  when  I  think  of  you,  when  I  re- 
member you,  be  able  to  say,  '  God  is  love.'  " 

He  was  silent,  but  his  face  still  spoke  to  her,  his  eyes  read  her 
eyes.  And  in  that  moment  at  last  they  understood  each  other 
fully  and  for  ever.  "  It  was  written  " — that  was  Domini's 
thought — "  it  was  written  by  God."  Far  away  the  church  bell 
chimed. 

"  Boris,"  Domini  said  quietly,  "  we  must  go  to-day.  We 
must  leave  Beni-Mora.  You  know  that?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  know." 

He  looked  out  into  the  garden.  The  almost  fierce  resolution, 
that  had  something  in  it  of  triumph,  faded  from  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  this  is  the  end,  the  real  end,  for — there,  it 
will  all  be  different — it  will  be  terrible." 


THE   JOURNEY   BACK  469 

"  Let  us  sit  here  for  a  little  while  together,"  Domini  said, 
"  and  be  quiet.  Is  it  like  the  garden  of  El-Largani,  Boris?  " 

"  No.  But  when  I  first  came  here,  when  I  saw  the  white 
walls,  the  great  door,  when  I  saw  the  poor  Arabs  gathered  there 
to  receive  alms,  it  made  me  feel  almost  as  if  I  were  at  El- 
Largani.  That  was  why "  he  paused. 

"  I  understand,  Boris,  I  understand  everything  now." 

And  then  they  were  silent.  Such  a  silence  as  theirs  was  then 
Could  never  be  interpreted  to  others.  In  it  the  sorrows,  the 
aspirations,  the  struggles,  the  triumphs,  the  torturing  regrets, 
the  brave  determinations  of  poor,  great,  feeble,  noble  humanity 
were  enclosed  as  in  a  casket — a  casket  which  contains  many 
kinds  of  jewels,  but  surely  none  that  are  not  precious. 

And  the  garden  listened,  and  beyond  the  garden  the  desert 
listened — that  other  garden  of  Allah.  And  in  this  garden  was 
not  Allah,  too,  listening  to  this  silence  of  his  children,  this  last 
mutual  silence  of  theirs  in  the  garden  where  they  had  wandered, 
where  they  had  loved,  where  they  had  learned  a  great  lesson 
and  drawn  near  to  a  great  victory? 

They  might  have  sat  thus  for  hours;  they  had  lost  all  count 
of  time.  But  presently,  in  the  distance  among  the  trees,  there 
rose  a  light,  frail  sound  that  struck  into  both  their  hearts  like  a 
thin  weapon.  It  was  the  flute  of  Larbi,  and  it  reminded  them — 
of  what  did  it  not  remind  them?  All  their  passionate  love  of 
the  body,  all  their  lawlessness,  all  the  joy  of  liberty  and  of  life, 
of  the  barbaric  life  that  is  liberty,  all  their  wandering  in  the 
great  spaces  of  the  sun,  were  set  before  them  in  Larbi 's  flutter- 
ing tune,  that  was  like  the  call  of  a  siren,  the  call  of  danger,  the 
call  of  earth  and  of  earthly  things,  summoning  them  to  abandon 
the  summons  of  the  spirit.  Domini  got  up  swiftly. 

"  Come,  Boris,"  she  said,  without  looking  at  him. 

He  obeyed  her  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Let  us  go  to  the  wall,"  she  said,  "  and  look  out  once  more 
on  the  desert.  It  must  be  nearly  noon.  Perhaps — perhaps  we 
shall  hear  the  call  to  prayer." 

They  walked  down  the  winding  alleys  towards  the  edge  of 
the  garden.  The  sound  of  the  flute  of  Larbi  died  away  grad- 
ually into  silence.  Soon  they  saw  before  them  the  great  spaces 
of  the  Sahara  flooded  with  the  blinding  glory  of  the  summer 
sunlight.  They  stood  and  looked  out  over  it  from  the  shelter 
of  some  pepper  trees.  No  caravans  were  passing.  No  Arabs 
were  visible.  The  desert  seemed  utterly  empty,  given  over, 
naked,  to  the  dominion  of  the  sun.  While  they  stood  there  the 


470  THE  GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

nasal  voice  of  the  Mueddin  rose  from  the  minaret  of  the  mosque 
of  Beni-Mora,  uttered  its  fourfold  cry,  and  died  away. 

"  Boris,"  Domini  said,  "  that  is  for  the  Arabs,  but  for  us,  too, 
for  we  belong  to  the  garden  of  Allah  as  they  do,  perhaps  even 
more  than  they." 

"  Yes,  Domini." 

"  She  remembered  how,  long  ago,  Count  Anteoni  had  stood 
there  with  her  and  repeated  the  words  of  the  angel  to  the 
Prophet,  and  she  murmured  them  now: 

"  O  thou  that  art  covered,  arise,  and  magnify  thy  Lord,  and 
purify  thy  clothes,  and  depart  from  uncleanness." 

Then,  standing  side  by  side,  they  prayed,  looking  at  the 
desert. 

CHAPTER  XXX 

IN  the  evening  of  that  day  they  left  Ber'-Mora. 

Domini  wished  to  go  quietly,  but,  knowing  the  Arabs,  she 
feared  it  would  be  impossible.  Nevertheless,  when  she  paid 
Batouch  in  the  hotel  and  thanked  him  for  all  his  services,  she 
said: 

"  We'll  say  adieu  here,  Batouch."  ' 

The  poet  displayed  a  large  surprise. 

"  But  I  will  accompany  Madame  to  the  station.  I 
will " 

"  It  is  not  necessary." 

Batouch  looked  offended  but  obstinate.  His  ample  person 
became  almost  rigid. 

"  If  I  am  not  at  the  station,  Madame,  what  will  Hadj  think, 
and  Ali,  and  Ouardi,  and " 

"They  will  be  there?" 

"Of  course,  Madame.  Where  else  should  they  be?  Does 
Madame  wish  to  leave  us  like  a  thief  in  the  night,  or  like " 

"  No,  no,  Batouch.  I  am  very  grateful  to  you  all,  but  espe- 
cially to  you." 

Batouch  began  to  smile. 

"  Madame  has  entered  into  our  hearts  as  no  other  stranger 
has  ever  done,"  he  remarked.  "  Madame  understands  the 
Arabs.  We  shall  all  come  to  say  au  revoir  and  to  wish  Madame 
and  Monsieur  a  happy  journey." 

For  the  moment  the  irony  of  her  situation  struck  Domini  so 
forcibly  that  she  could  say  nothing.  She  only  looked  at  Batouch 
in  silence. 


THE   JOURNEY   BACK  471 

"  What  is  it  ?  But  I  know.  Madame  is  sad  at  leaving  the 
desert,  at  leaving  Beni-Mora." 

"  Yes,  Batouch.     I  am  sad  at  leaving  Beni-Mora." 

"  But  Madame  will  return  ?  " 

"Who  knows?" 

"  I  know.  The  desert  has  a  spell.  He  who  has  once  seen 
the  desert  must  see  it  again.  The  desert  calls  and  its  voice  is 
always  heard.  Madame  will  hear  it  when  she  is  far  away,  and 
some  day  she  will  feel,  '  I  must  come  back  to  the  land  of  the  sun 
and  to  the  beautiful  land  of  forgetfulness.'  " 

"  I  shall  see  you  at  the  station,  Batouch,"  Domini  said 
quickly.  "  Good-bye  till  then." 

The  train  for  Tunis  started  at  sundown,  in  order  that  the 
travellers  might  avoid  the  intense  heat  of  the  day.  All  the 
afternoon  they  kept  within  doors.  The  Arabs  were  sleeping  in 
dark  rooms.  The  gardens  were  deserted.  Domini  could  not 
sleep.  She  sat  near  the  French  window  that  opened  on  to  the 
verandah  and  said  a  silent  good-bye  to  life.  For  that  was 
what  she  felt — that  life  was  leaving  her,  life  with  its  intensity, 
its  fierce  meaning.  She  had  come  out  of  a  sort  of  death  to  find 
life  in  Beni-Mora,  and  now  she  felt  that  she  was  going  back 
again  to  something  that  would  be  like  death.  After  her  strife 
there  came  a  numbness  of  the  spirit,  a  heavy  dullness.  Time 
passed  and  she  sat  there  without  moving.  Sometimes  she  looked 
at  the  trunks  lying  on  the  floor. ready  for  the  journey,  at  the 
labels  on  which  was  written  "  Tunis  via  Constantine."  And 
then  she  tried  to  imagine  what  it  would  be  like  to  travel  in  the 
train  after  her  long  travelling  in  the  desert,  and  what  it  would 
be  like  to  be  in  a  city.  But  she  could  not.  The  heat  was  in- 
tense. Perhaps  it  affected  her  mind  through  her  body.  Faintly, 
far  down  in  her  mind  and  heart,  she  knew  that  she  was  wishing, 
even  longing,  to  realise  all  that  these  last  hours  in  Beni-Mora 
meant,  to  gather  up  in  them  all  the  threads  of  her  life  and  her 
sensations  there,  to  survey,  as  from  a  height;  the  panorama  of 
the  change  that  had  come  to  her  in  Africa.  But  she  was  frus- 
trated. 

The  hours  fled,  and  she  remained  cold,  listless.  Often 
she  was  hardly  thinking  at  all.  When  the  Arab  servant  came  in 
to  tell  her  that  it  was  time  to  start  for  the  station  she  got  up 
slowly  and  looked  at  him  vaguely. 

"  Time  to  go  already?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  Madame.     I  have  told  Monsieur." 

"  Very  well." 


472  THE   GARDEN   OF   ALLAH 

At  this  moment  Androvsky  came  into  the  room. 

"  The  carriage  is  waiting,"  he  said. 

She  felt  almost  as  if  a  stranger  was  speaking  to  her. 

"  I  am  ready,"  she  said. 

And  without  looking  round  the  room  she  went  downstairs 
and  got  into  the  carriage. 

They  drove  to  the  station  without  speaking.  She  had  not 
seen  Father  Roubier.  Androvsky  took  the  tickets.  When  they 
came  out  upon  the  platform  they  found  there  a  small  crowd  of 
Arab  friends,  with  Batouch  in  command.  Among  them  were 
the  servants  who  had  accompanied  them  upon  their  desert  jour- 
ney, and  Hadj.  He  came  forward  smiling  to  shake  hands. 
When  she  saw  him  Domini  remembered  Irena,  and,  forgetting 
that  it  is  not  etiquette  to  inquire  after  an  Arab's  womenfolk, 
she  said: 

"  Ah,  Hadj,  and  are  you  happy  now?    How  is  Irena?  " 

Hadj's  face  fell,  and  he  showed  his  pointed  teeth  in  a  snarl. 
For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  looking  round  at  the  other  Arabs. 
Then  he  said: 

"  I  am  always  happy,  Madame." 

Domini  saw  that  she  had  made  a  mistake.  She  took  out  her 
purse  and  gave  him  five  francs. 

"  A  parting  present,"  she  said. 

Hadj  shook  his  head  with  recovered  cheerfulness,  tucked  in 
his  chin  and  laughed.  Domini  turned  away,  shook  hands  with 
all  her  dark  acquaintances,  and  climbed  up  into  the  train,  fol- 
lowed by  Androvsky.  Batouch  sprang  upon  the  step  as  the 
porter  shut  the- door. 

"  Madame !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"What  is  it,  Batouch?" 

11  To-day  you  have  put  Hadj  to  shame." 

He  smiled  broadly. 

]|  I?     How?    What  have  I  done?  " 

"  Irena  is  dancing  at  Onargla,  far  away  in  the  desert  beyond 
Amara." 

"  Irena!     But " 

"  She  could  not  live  shut  up  in  a  room.  She  could  not  wear 
the  veil  for  Hadj." 

•«  But  then-—  ?" 

"  She  has  divorced  him,  Madame.  It  is  easy  here.  For  a 
few  francs  one  can " 

The  whistle  sounded.  The  train  jerked.  Batouch  seized  her 
hand,  seized  Androvsky 's,  sprang  back  to  the  platform. 


THE   JOURNEY  BACK  473 

"  Good-bye,  Batouch !  Good-bye,  Ouardi !  Good-bye, 
Smam!" 

The  train  moved  on.  As  it  reached  the  end  of  the  platform 
Domini  saw  an  emaciated  figure  standing  there  alone,  a  thin 
face  with  glittering  eyes  turned  towards  her  with  a  glaring 
scrutiny.  It  was  the  sand-diviner.  He  smiled  at  her,  and  his 
smile  contracted  the  wound  upon  his  face,  making  it  look 
wicked  and  grotesque  like  the  face  of  a  demon.  She  sank  down 
on  the  seat.  For  a  moment,  a  hideous  moment,  she  felt  as  if  he 
personified  Beni-Mora,  as  if  this  smile  were  Beni-Mora's  fare- 
well to  her  and  to  Androvsky. 

And  Irena  was  dancing  at  Onargla,  far  away  in  the  desert. 

She  remembered  the  night  in  the  dancing-house,  Irena's 
attack  upon  Hadj. 

That  love  of  Africa  was  at  an  end.  Was  not  everything  at 
an  end  ?  Yet  Larbi  still  played  upon  his  flute  in  the  garden  of 
Count  Anteoni,  still  played  the  little  tune  that  was  as  the  leit 
motif  of  the  eternal  renewal  of  life.  And  within  herself  she 
carried  God's  mystery  of  renewal,  even  she,  with  her  numbed 
mind,  her  tired  heart.  She,  too,  was  to  help  to  carry  forward 
the  banner  of  life. 

She  had  come  to  Beni-Mora  in  the  sunset,  and  now,  in  the 
sunset,  she  was  leaving  it.  But  she  did  not  lean  from  the  car- 
riage window  to  watch  the  pageant  that  was  flaming  in  the 
west.  Instead,  she  shut  her  eyes  and  remembered  it  as  it  was 
on  that  evening  when  they,  who  now  were  journeying  away 
from  the  desert  together,  had  been  journeying  towards  it 
together.  Strangers  who  had  never  spoken  to  each  other.  And 
the  evening  came,  and  the  train  stole  into  the  gorge  of  El- 
Akbara,  and  still  she  kept  her  eyes  closed.  Only  when  the 
desert  was  finally  left  behind,  divided  from  them  by  the  great 
wall  of  rock,  did  she  look  up  and  speak  to  Androvsky. 

"  We  met  here,  Boris,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  at  the  gate  of  the  desert.  I  shall  never 
be  here  again." 

Soon  the  night  fell  around  them. 

In  the  evening  of  the  following  day  they  reached  Tunis,  and 
drove  to  the  Hotel  d'Orient,  where  they  had  written  to  engage 
rooms  for  one  night.  They  had  expected  that  the  city  would  be 
almost  deserted  by  its  European  inhabitants  now  the  summer 
had  set  in,  but  when  they  drove  up  to  the  door  of  the  hotel  the 
proprietor  came  out  to  inform  them  that,  owing  to  the  arrival  of 


474  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

a  ship  full  of  American  tourists  who,  personally  conducted,  were 
"  viewing  "  Tunis  after  an  excursion  to  the  East  and  to  the 
Holy  Land,  he  had  been  unable  to  keep  for  them  a  private  sit- 
ting-room. With  many  apologies  he  explained  that  all  the 
sitting-rooms  in  the  house  had  been  turned  into  bedrooms,  but 
only  for  one  night.  On  the  morrow  the  personally-conducted 
ones  would  depart  and  Madame  and  Monsieur  could  have  a 
charming  salon.  They  listened  silently  to  his  explanations 
and  apologies,  standing  in  the  narrow  entrance  hall,  which  was 
blocked  up  with  piles  of  luggage.  "  To-morrow,"  he  kept  on 
repeating,  "  to-morrow  "  all  would  be  different. 

Domini  glanced  at  Androvsky,  who  stood  with  his  head  bent 
down,  looking  on  the  ground. 

"  Shall  we  try  another  hotel  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  If  you  wish,"  he  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

"  It  would  be  useless,  Madame,"  said  the  proprietor.  "  All 
the  hotels  are  full.  In  the  others  you  will  not  find  even  a 
bedroom." 

"  Perhaps  we  had  better  stay  here,"  she  said  to  Androvsky. 

Her  voice,  too,  was  low  and  tired.  In  her  heart  something 
seemed  to  say,  "  Do  not  strive, any  more.  In  the  garden  it  was 
finished.  Already  you  are  face  to  face  with  the  end." 

When  she  was  alone  in  her  small  bedroom,  which  was  full  of 
the  noises  of  the  street,  and  had  washed  and  put  on  another 
dress,  she  began  to  realise  how  much  she  had  secretly  been 
counting  on  one  more  evening  alone  with  Androvsky.  She  had 
imagined  herself  dining  with  him  in  their  sitting-room  un- 
watched,  sitting  together  afterwards,  for  an  hour  or  two,  in 
silence  perhaps,  but  at  least  alone.  She  had  imagined  a  last 
solitude  with  him  with  the  darkness  of  the  African  night  around 
them.  She  had  counted  upon  that.  She  realised  it  now.  Her 
whole  heart  and  soul  had  been  asking  for  that,  believing  that  at 
least  that  would  be  granted  to  her.  But  it  was  not  to  be.  She 
must  go  down  with  him  into  a  crowd  of  American  tourists, 
must — her  heart  sickened.  It  seemed  to  her  for  a  moment  that 
if  only  she  could  have  this  one  more  evening  quietly  with  the 
man  she  loved  she  could  brace  herself  to  bear  anything  after- 
wards, but  that  if  she  could  not  have  it  she  must  break  down. 
She  felt  desperate. 

A  gong  sounded  below.  She  did  not  move,  though  she  heard 
it,  knew  what  it  meant.  After  a  few  minutes  there  was  a  tap 
at  the  door. 

"What  is  it?  "she  said. 


THE   JOURNEY   BACK  475 

"  Dinner  is  ready,  Madame,"  said  a  voice  in  English  with  a 
strong  foreign  accent. 

Domini  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

"  Does  Monsieur  know?  " 

"  Monsieur  is  already  in  the  hall  waiting  for  Madame." 

She  went  down  and  found  Androvsky. 

They  dined  at  a  small  table  in  a  room  fiercely  lit  up  with 
electric  light  and  restless  with  revolving  fans.  Close  to  them, 
at  an  immense  table  decorated  with  flowers,  dined  the  American 
tourists.  The  women  wore  hats  with  large  hanging  veils.  The 
men  were  in  travelling  suits.  They  looked  sunburnt  and  gay, 
and  talked  and  laughed  with  an  intense  vivacity.  Afterwards 
they  were  going  in  a  body  to  see  the  dances  of  the  Almees. 
Androvsky  shot  one  glance  at  them  as  he  came  in,  then  looked 
away  quickly.  The  lines  near  his  mouth  deepened.  For  a 
moment  he  shut  his  eyes.  Domini  did  not  speak  to  him,  did 
not  attempt  to  talk.  Enveloped  by  the  nasal  uproar  of  the  gay 
tourists  they  ate  in  silence.  When  the  short  meal  was  over  they 
got  up  and  went  out  into  the  hall.  The  public  drawing-room 
opened  out  of  it  on  the  left.  They  looked  into  it  and  saw  red 
plush  settees,  a  large  centre  table  covered  with  a  rummage  of 
newspapers,  a  Jew  with  a  bald  head  writing  a  letter,  and  two 
old  German  ladies  with  caps  drinking  coffee  and  knitting 
stockings. 

"  The  desert !  "  Androvsky  whispered. 

Suddenly  he  drew  away  from  the  door  and  walked  out  into 
the  street.  Lines  of  carriages  stood  there  waiting  to  be 
hired.  He  beckoned  to  one,  a  victoria  with  a  pair  of  small 
Arab  horses.  When  it  was  in  front  of  the  hotel  he  said  to 
Domini : 

"Will  you  get  in,  Domini?" 

She  obeyed.     Androvsky  said  to  the  mettse  driver: 

"  Drive  to  the  Belvedere.  Drive  round  the  park  till  I  tell 
you  to  return." 

The  man  whipped  his  horses,  and  they  rattled  down  the  broad 
street,  past  the  brilliantly-lighted  cafes,  the  Cercle  Militaire,  the 
palace  of  the  Resident,  where  Zouaves  were  standing,  turned  to 
the  left  and  were  soon  out  on  a  road  where  a  tram  line  stretched 
between  villas,  waste  ground  and  flat  fields.  In  front  of  them 
rose  a  hill  with  a  darkness  of  trees  scattered  over  it.  They 
reached  it,  and  began  to  mount  it  slowly.  The  lights  of  the 
city  shone  below  them.  Domini  saw  great  sloping  lawns  dotted 
with  streets  and  by  trees.  Scents  of  hidden  flowers  came  to 


476  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

her  in  the  night,  and  she  heard  a  whirr  of  insects.     Still  they 
mounted,  and  presently  reached  the  top  of  the  hill. 

"  Stop !  "  said  Androvsky  to  the  driver. 

He  drew  up  his  horses. 

"  Wait  for  us  here." 

Androvsky  got  out. 

"  Shall  we  walk  a  little  way?  "  he  said  to  Domini. 

«  Yes— yes." 

She  got  out  too,  and  they  walked  slowly  along  the  deserted 
road.  Below  them  she  saw  the  lights  of  ships  gliding  upon  the 
lakes,  the  bright  eyes  of  a  lighthouse,  the  distant  lamps  of 
scattered  villages  along  the  shores,  and,  very  far  off,  a  yellow 
gleam  that  dominated  the  sea  beyond  the  lakes  and  seemed  to 
watch  patiently  all  those  who  came  and  went,  the  pilgrims  to 
and  from  Africa.  That  gleam  shone  in  Carthage. 

From  the  sea  over  the  flats  came  to  them  a  breeze  that  had  a 
savour  of  freshness,  of  cool  and  delicate  life. 

They  walked  for  some  time  without  speaking,  then  Domini 
said: 

"  From  the  cemetery  of  El-Largani  you  looked  out  over  this, 
didn't  you,  Boris?  " 

"  Yes,  Domini,"  he  answered.  "  It  was  then  that  the  voice 
spoke  to  me." 

"  It  will  never  speak  again.  God  will  not  let  it  speak 
again." 

"  How  can  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  We  are  tried  in  the  fire,  Boris,  but  we  are  not  burnt  to 
death." 

She  said  it  for  herself,  to  reassure  herself,  to  give  a  little  com- 
fort to  her  own  soul. 

"  To-night  I  feel  as  if  it  were  not  so,"  he  answered.  "  When 
we  came  to  the  hotel  it  seemed — I  thought  that  I  could  not 
go  on." 

"And  now?" 

"  Now  I  do  not  know  anything  except  that  this  is  my  last 
night  with  you.  And,  Domini,  that  seems  to  me  to  be  abso- 
lutely incredible  although  I  know  it.  I  cannot  imagine  any 
future  away  from  you,  any  life  in  which  I  do  not  see  you.  I  feel 
as  if  in  parting  from  you  I  am  parting  from  myself,  as  if  the 
thing  left  would  be  no  more  a  man,  but  only  a  broken  husk. 
Can  I  pray  without  you,  love  God  without  you  ?  " 

"  Best  without  me." 
"  But  can  I  live  without  you,.  Domini  ?  Can  I  wake  day  after 


THE  JOURNEY  BACK  477 

day  to  the  sunshine,  and  know  that  I  shall  never  see  you  again, 
and  go  on  living?  Can  I  do  that?  I  don't  feel  as  if  it  could  be. 
Perhaps,  when  I  have  done  my  penance,  God  will  have  mercy." 

"How,  Boris?" 

"  Perhaps  He  will  let  me  die." 

"  Let  us  fix  all  the  thoughts  of  our  hearts  on  the  life  in  which 
He  may  let  us  be  together  once  more.  Look,  Boris,  there  are 
lights  in  the  darkness,  there  will  always  be  lights." 

"  I  can't  see  them,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  and  saw  that  tears  were  running  down  his 
cheeks.  Again,  on  this  last  night  of  companionship,  God 
summoned  her  to  be  strong  for  him.  On  the  edge  of  the  hill, 
close  to  them,  she  saw  a  Moorish  temple  built  of  marble,  with 
narrow  arches  and  columns,  and  marble  seats. 

"  Let  us  sit  here  for  a  moment,  Boris,"  she  said. 

He  followed  her  up  the  marble  steps.  Two  or  three  times  he 
stumbled,  but  she  djd  not  give  him  her  hand.  They  sat  down 
between  the  slender  columns  and  looked  out  over  the  city,  whose 
blanched  domes  and  minarets  were  faintly  visible  in  the  night. 
Androvsky  was  shaken  with  sobs. 

"  How  can  I  part  from  you  ?  "  he  said  brokenly.  "  How  am 
I  to  do  it?  How  can  I — how  can  I?  Why  was  I  given  this 
love  for  you,  this  terrible  thing,  this  crying  out,  this  reaching  out 
of  the  flesh  and  heart  and  soul  to  you?  Domini — Domini — 
what  does  it  all  mean — this  mystery  of  torture — this  scourging 
of  the  body — this  tearing  in  pieces  of  my  soul  and  yours? 
Domini,  shall  we  know — shall  we  ever  know?  " 

"  I  am  sure  we  shall  know,  we  shall  all  know  some  day,  the 
meaning  of  the  mystery  of  pain.  And  then,  perhaps,  then 
surely,  we  shall  each  of  us  be  glad  that  we  have  suffered.  The 
suffering  will  make  the  glory  of  our  happiness.  Even  now 
sometimes  when  I  am  suffering,  Boris,  I  feel  as  if  there  were  a 
kind  of  splendour,  even  a  kind  of  nobility  in  what  I  am  doing,  as 
if  I  were  proving  my  own  soul,  proving  the  force  that  God  has 
put  into  me.  Boris,  let  us — you  and  I — learn  to  say  in  all  this 
terror,  '  I  am  unconquered,  I  am  unconquerable.'  " 

"  I  feel  that  I  could  say  that,  be  it  in  the  most  frightful  cir- 
cumstances, if  only  I  could  sometimes  see  you — even  far  away  as 
now  I  see  those  lights." 

"  You  will  see  me  in  your  prayers  every  day,  and  I  shall  see 
you  in  mine." 

"  But  the  cry  of  the  body,  Domini,  of  the  eyes,  of  the  hands, 
to  see,  to  touch — it's  so  fierce,  it's  so — it's  so " 


478  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

"  I  know,  I  hear  it  too,  always.  But  there  is  another  voice, 
which  will  be  strong  when  the  other  has  faded  into  eternal 
silence.  Small  bodily  things,  even  the  most  beautiful,  there  is 
something  finite.  We  must  reach  out  our  poor,  feeble,  trem- 
bling hands  to  the  infinite.  I  think  everyone  who  is  born  does 
that  through  life,  often  without  being  conscious  of  it.  We  shall 
do  it  consciously,  you  and  I.  We  shall  be  able  to  do  it  because 
of  our  dreadful  suffering.  We  shall  want,  we  shall  have  to  do 
it,  you — where  you  are  going,  and  I " 

"  Where  will  you  be?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know.  I  won't  think  of  the  after- 
wards now,  in  these  last  few  hours — in  these  last " 

Her  voice  faltered  and  broke.  Then  the  tears  came  to  her 
also,  and  for  a  while  she  could  not  see  the  distant  lights. 

Then  she  spoke  again ;  she  said : 

"  Boris,  let  us  go  now." 

He  got  up  without  a  word.  They  found  the  carriage  and 
drove  back  to  Tunis. 

When  they  reached  the  hotel  they  came  into  the  midst  of  the 
American  tourists,  who  were  excitedly  discussing  the  dances  they 
had  seen,  and  calling  for  cooling  drinks  to  allay  the  thirst  created 
by  the  heat  of  the  close  rooms  of  Oriental  houses. 

Early  next  morning  a  carriage  was  at  the  door,  When  they 
had  got  into  it  the  coachman  looked  round. 

"  Where  shall  I  drive  to,  Monsieur?  " 

Androvsky  looked  at  him  and  made  no  reply. 

"  To  El-Largani,"  Domini  said. 

"  To  the  monastery,  Madame  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

He  whistled  to  his  horses  gaily.  As  they  trotted  on  bells 
chimed  about  their  necks,  chimed  a  merry  peal  to  the  sunshine 
that  lay  over  the  land.  They  passed  soldiers  marching,  and 
heard  the  call  of  bugles,  the  rattle  of  drums.  And  each  sound 
seemed  distant  and  each  moving  figure  far  away.  This  world 
of  Africa,  fiercely  distinct  in  the  clear  air  under  the  cloudless 
sky,  was  unreal  to  them  both,  was  vague  as  a  northern  land 
wrapped  in  a  mist  of  autumn.  The  unreal  was  about  them. 
Within  themselves  was  the  real.  They  sat  beside  each  other 
without  speaking.  Words  to  them  now  were  useless  things. 
What  more  had  they  to  say?  Everything  and  nothing.  Life- 
times would  not  have  been  long  enough  for  them  to  speak  their 
thoughts  for  each  other,  of  each  other,  to  speak  their  emotions, 
all  that  was  in  their  minds  and  hearts  during  that  drive  from  the 


THE   JOURNEY   BACK  479 

city  to  the  monastery  that  stood  upon  the  hill.  Yet  did  not  their 
mutual  action  of  that  morning  say  all  that  need  be  said?  The 
silence  of  the  Trappists  surely  floated  out  to  them  over  the 
plains  and  the  pale  waters  of  the  bitter  lakes  and  held  them 
silent. 

But  the  bells  on  the  horses'  necks  rang  always  gaily,  and  the 
coachman,  who  would  presently  drive  Domini  back  alone  to 
Tunis,  whistled  and  sang  on  his  high  seat. 

Presently  they  came  to  a  great  wooden  cross  standing  on  a 
pedestal  of  stone  by  the  roadside  at  the  edge  of  a  grove  of  olive 
trees.  It  marked  the  beginning  of  the  domain  of  El-Largani. 
When  Domini  saw  it  she  looked  at  Androvsky,  and  his  eyes 
answered  her  silent  question.  The  coachman  whipped  his  horses 
into  a  canter,  as  if  he  were  in  haste  to  reach  his  destination.  He 
was  thinking  of  the  good  red  wine  of  the  monks.  In  a  cloud  of 
white  dust  the  carriage  rolled  onwards  between  vineyards  in 
which,  here  and  there,  labourers  were  working,  sheltered  from 
the  sun  by  immense  straw  hats.  A  long  line  of  waggons,  laden 
with  barrels  and  drawn  by  mules  covered  with  bells,  sheltered 
from  the  flies  by  leaves,  met  them.  In  the  distance  Domini 
saw  forests  of  eucalyptus  trees.  Suddenly  it  seemed  to  her  as  if 
she  saw  Androvsky  coming  from  them  towards  the  white  road, 
helping  a  man  who  was  pale,  and  who  stumbled  as  if  half-faint- 
ing, yet  whose  face  was  full  of  a  fierce  passion  of  joy — the 
stranger'whose  influence  had  driven  him  out  of  the  monastery 
into  the  world.  She  bent  down  her  head  and  hid  her  face  in 
her  hands,  praying,  praying  with  all  her  strength  for  courage  in 
this  supreme  moment  of  her  life.  But  almost  directly  the  pray- 
ers died  on  her  lips  and  in  her  heart,  and  she  found  herself  re- 
peating the  words  of  The  Imitation : 

"  Love  watcheth,  and  sleeping,  slumbereth  not.  When  weary 
it  is  not  tired;  when  straitened  it  is  not  constrained;  when 
frightened  it  is  not  disturbed ;  but  like  a  vivid  flame  and  a  burn- 
ing torch  it  mounteth  upwards  and  securely  passeth  through  all. 
Whosoever  loveth  knoweth  the  cry  of  this  voice." 

Again  and  again  she  said  the  words:  "It  securely  passeth 
through  all — it  securely  passeth  through  all."  Now,  at  last, 
she  was  to  know  the  uttermost  truth  of  those  words  which  she 
had  loved  in  her  happiness,  which  she  clung  to  now  as  a  little 
child  clings  to  its  father's  hand. 

The  carriage  turned  to  the  right,  went  on  a  little  way,  then 
stopped. 

Domini  lifted  her  face  from  her  hands,     She  saw  before  her 


48o  THE  GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

a  great  door  which  stood  open.  Above  it  was  a  statue  of  the 
Madonna  and  Child,  and  on  either  side  were  two  angels  with 
swords  and  stars.  Underneath  was  written,  in  great  letters : 

JANUA  COELL 

Beyond,  through  the  doorway,  she  saw  an  open  space  upon 
which  the  sunlight  streamed,  three  palm  trees,  and  a  second  door 
which  was  shut.  Above  this  second  door  was  written: 

"  Les  dames  nentrent  pas  ici." 

As  she  looked  the  figure  of  a  very  old  monk  with  a  long  white 
beard  shuffled  slowly  across  the  patch  of  sunlight  and 
disappeared. 

The  coachman  turned  round. 

"  You  descend  here,"  he  said  in  a  cheerful  voice.  "  Madame 
will  be  entertained  in  the  parlour  on  the  right  of  the  first  door, 
but  Monsieur  can  go  on  to  the  hotellerie.  It's  over  there." 

He  pointed  with  his  whip  and  turned  his  back  to  them  again. 

Domini  sat  quite  still.  Her  lips  moved,  once  more  repeating 
the  words  of  The  Imitation.  Androvsky  got  up  from  his  seat, 
stepped  heavily  out  of  the  carriage,  and  stood  beside  it.  The 
coachman  was  busy  lighting  a  long  cigar.  Androvsky  leaned 
forward  towards  Domini  with  his  arms  on  the  carriage  and 
looked  at  her  with  tearless  eyes. 

"  Domini,"  at  last  he  whispered.     "  Domini!  " 

Then  she  turned  to  him,  bent  towards  him,  put  her  hands  on 
his  shoulders  and  looked  into  his  face  for  a  long  time,  as  if  she 
were  trying  to  see  it  now  for  all  the  years  that  were  perhaps  to 
come.  Her  eyes,  too,  were  tearless. 

At  last  she  leaned  down  and  touched  his  forehead  with  her 
lips. 

She  said  nothing.  Her  hands  dropped  from  his  shoulders, 
she  turned  away  and  her  lips  moved  once  more. 

Then  Androvsky  moved  slowly  in  through  the  doorway  of 
the  monastery,  crossed  the  patch  of  sunlight,  lifted  his  hand  and 
rang  the  bell  at  the  second  door. 

"  Drive  back  to  Tunis,  please." 

"  Madame!  "  said  the  coachman. 

"  Drive  back  to  Tunis." 

"  Madame  is  not  going  to  enter!     But  Monsieur " 

"Drive  back  to  Tunis!" 


THE   JOURNEY   BACK  481 

Something  in  the  voice  that  spoke  to  him  startled  the  coach- 
man. He  hesitated  a  moment,  staring  at  Domini  from  his  seat, 
then,  with  a  muttered  curse,  he  turned  his  horses'  heads  and 
plied  the  whip  ferociously. 

"  Love  watcheth,  and  sleeping,  slumbereth  not.  When  weary 
it  is  not  tired.  When  weary — it — is  not — tired." 

Domini's  lips  ceased  to  move.  She  could  not  speak  any 
more.  She  could  not  even  pray  without  words. 

Yet,  in  that  moment,  she  did  not  feel  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

IN  the  garden  of  Count  Anteoni,  which  has  now  passed  into 
other  hands,  a  little  boy  may  often  be  seen  playing.  He  is  gay, 
as  children  are,  and  sometimes  he  is  naughty  and,  as  if  out  of 
sheer  wantonness,  he  destroys  the  pyramids  of  sand  erected  by 
the  Arab  gardeners  upon  the  narrow  paths  between  the  hills,  or 
tears  off  the  petals  of  the  geraniums  and  scatters  them  to  the 
breezes  that  whisper  among  the  trees.  But  when  Larbi's  flute 
calls  to  him  he  runs  to  hear.  He  sits  at  the  feet  of  that  per- 
sistent lover,  and  watches  the  big  fingers  fluttering  at  the  holes 
of  the  reed,  and  his  small  face  becomes  earnest  and  dreamy,  as  if 
it  looked  on  far-off  things,  or  watched  the  pale  pageant  of  the 
mirages  rising  mysteriously  out  of  the  sunlit  spaces  of  the  sands 
to  fade  again,  leaving  no  trace  behind. 

Only  one  other  song  he  loves  more  than  the  twittering  tune 
of  Larbi. 

Sometimes,  when  twilight  is  falling  over  the  Sahara,  his 
mother  calls  him  to  her,  to  the  white  wall  where  she  is  sitting  be- 
neath a  jamelon  tree. 

"  Listen,  Boris!  "  she  whispers. 

The  little  boy  climbs  up  on  her  knee,  leans  his  face  against 
her  breast  and  obeys.  An  Arab  is  passing  below  on  the  desert 
track,  singing  to  himself  as  he  goes  towards  his  home  in  the  oasis : 

"  No  one  but  God  and  I 
Knows  what  is  in  my  heart." 

He  is  singing  the  song  of  the  freed  negroes.  When  his  voice 
has  died  away  the  mother  puts  the  little  boy  down.  It  is  bed- 


482  THE   GARDEN   OF  ALLAH 

time,  and  Smai'n  is  there  to  lead  him  to  the  white  villa,  where  he 
will  sleep  dreamlessly  till  morning. 

But  the  mother  stays  alone  by  the  wall  till  the  night  falls  and 
the  desert  is  hidden. 

"No  one  but  God  and  I 
Knows  what  is  in  my  heart." 

She  whispers  the  words  to  herself.  The  cool  wind  of  the  night 
blows  over  the  vast  spaces  of  the  Sahara  and  touches  her  cheek, 
reminding  her  of  the  wind  that,  at  Arba,  carried  fire  towards  her 
as  she  sat  before  the  tent,  reminding  her  of  her  glorious  days  of 
liberty,  of  the  passion  that  came  to  her  soul  like  fire  in  the  desert. 

But  che  does  not  rebel. 

For  always,  when  night  falls,  she  sees  the  form  of  a  man 
praying  who  once  fled  from  prayer  in  the  desert;  she  sees  a 
wanderer  who  at  last  has  reached  his  home. 


THE     END 


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